


Red Is Also A Color

by Morimaitar



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Capes, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexuality Spectrum, Bisexual Characters, Comfort, Drug Use, Found Family, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Jason Todd Has Issues, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Explicit Sex, Queer Characters, Reclaimed Slurs, Relationship Problems, Romani Dick Grayson, Slow Burn, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Underage Drinking, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-28 22:30:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 100,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20433530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morimaitar/pseuds/Morimaitar
Summary: Jason Todd is NOT gay.  With a drug-addicted mother and an empty bank account, he has enough problems as it is. He just needs to focus on keeping himself alive until graduation, and then he can forget the boy with the blue eyes and perfect smile. It was a bad idea to begin with, anyway.AKA nobody is straight and everybody has a problem.





	1. Rainbow Youth Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started out as a lighthearted one-shot and then...? IDK what happened, man.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include: reclaimed slurs, drug use, homophobia, and mild violence.

It is a stupid idea. An absolutely horrible, abhorrent, disastrous idea.

Jason lingers outside the Community Center, pulling out his phone to check the time. Maybe if he slips in a little after four, no one will notice him. Or maybe everyone will notice him and think, _ hey, is that Jason Todd? What’s he doing here? _

Shit. He runs his hands through his dark hair, resisting the urge to start yanking it out by the roots. 

A couple months back he saw flyers for the group outside the gym at school. Grant was with him, so he pretended he was looking at the lineup at the Catalyst instead of reading the dates and times on the paper to his left. Every so often he opened up his laptop and stalked the group’s Instagram page, sweating with anxiety over the possibility that he might accidentally click “like” and announce to the whole damn world the type of shit he’s checking out. No way in hell that wouldn’t spread like wildfire. 

Once he actually called the number listed under their contact information. Some young woman answered: “Rainbow Youth Center, how may I help you?” and Jason’s blood ran so cold he could hardly move his fingers to end the call. What the fuck was he thinking? Just calling them up, like some kind of idiot. 

He doesn’t belong in this type of group. People like that blue-haired chick, and that Rayner kid, _ they’re _the ones who should be hanging out here. They don’t care about the things people write on their lockers or say about them behind their backs—hell, he saw what Blue Chick shaved into the back of her head. 

_ Fuck _. Part of him wishes he had that type of confidence. But maybe he doesn’t need it. 

He’s gone with girls before, even took one of them to Junior Prom and made out with her in a bathroom stall. Isabel. She wore a powder blue dress that hugged her hips, and oh god, he knew he was supposed to want her. And when they were in her Nissan, his hands were all clammy and hers were in his pants, and he was afraid to touch her even when she was on top and kissing him. _ This is what I want _, he reminded himself. And after, she dropped him off at his apartment and he sat on the balcony, feeling the cold air wash over his face as he drank everything they had in the liquor cabinet.

Queer kids don’t do shit like that. They stay on opposite sides of the dance floor, too scared to move even though both of them want nothing more in the universe. Rayner didn’t make a move the entire night, and neither did those Atlantean kids, Raine and Jackson. It was almost sad. 

No way. Jason isn’t like that. So why does he feel like he did something wrong by sleeping with Isabel even though she took his breath away? Why does he dream about running his hands over an unshaven face and planting kisses along a sharp jaw, tossing and turning until he sweats through his clothes and wakes, terrified? 

Maybe there is something wrong with him. Maybe it’s all that zoloft and morphine and smack his mom was taking when she was pregnant.

Like that really mattered anymore. In a few months, Jason will have his high school diploma, and maybe even get a scholarship to some university somewhere, and he can study literature like he always wanted. Goodbye Mom. Goodbye Mom’s drugs. Goodbye Dad. Hope the prison guards let you know where I’m going. Goodbye Gotham. Goodbye Rainbow Youth Center.

Hello Rainbow Youth Center. Somehow his feet have taken him to the door of room 142. There are people inside, talking loud enough for him to hear them through the wood. Jason looks around, biting his lip. What is he really afraid of? He plays soccer and boxes and cuts copper from cars. He lives in the East End. He’s spent a night in a jail cell. 

The room is full of twenty, maybe thirty young adults. Jason doesn’t think he sees Rayner or Blue Chick or anyone else from his class. His heart settles into a cautious rhythm, ready to explode at the slightest sign of trouble.

_ This was a mistake _, he thinks. He turns to leave, when suddenly he notices a pair of bright blue eyes locked on him. 

Grayson? Jason recognizes the older boy from a previous senior class, the one that graduated two years ago. _ Everyone _knows Grayson: the perfect, pretty, Golden Boy of Gotham. Bruce Wayne’s adopted son. What’s a guy like that doing here? 

_ Same as you, idiot _, Jason thinks. Except Grayson looks more relaxed about the whole thing, leaning into couch with his feet propped up on a coffee table. He’s sitting with two others, a blonde chick and a redheaded guy in a green baseball cap.

“You’re new,” someone says.

Jason whips around. The person speaking to him is a woman, tall, with short scarlet hair and bright eyes. 

She extends a hand. “Kate.”

He takes it, giving it a nervous shake. “Jason.”

“Welcome to our group, Jason. We’ve got Uno, Monopoly, cards. There’s snacks over there,” she says, pointing to a table with some sodas and goldfish, “and a few of us have started a book club, if you want to hop in and join the discussion. They’re reading _ The Song of Achilles _. It’s quite good.”

“Um.” Jason isn’t sure of what to do with all that information. Can’t she tell that he doesn’t fit in? Shouldn’t she be asking for his gay card, demanding he reveal how many pictures of guys he’s jacked off to, requesting some sort of proof? 

Kate laughs kindly. “I know, I know. What can I say? We all have different hobbies. Want me to introduce you to some folks?” 

“No,” he says quickly. “I mean, I think I’m supposed to be one room over.”

“You’re here for geriatric yoga?” Kate looks at him like there are birds nesting in his hair. 

He shuffles his feet, and grumbles, “Nevermind.”

“Alright then.” Kate winks and pats him on the shoulder. “See you around, Jason,” she says, walking over to a group of teens clumped around a game of Life.

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid _. Jason wants to die. No. He should leave, and then he should die, just so people don’t find out he croaked in the middle of two dozen queers. God, the things Grant would say. 

“I know you.” 

_ Here we go. _ An excuse pushes against his lips before he sees that Grayson is standing in front of him. The older boy has a dopish smile on his face; his bright blue eyes sparkle impishly. Jason has never seen eyes so rich, eyes so wide and blue they could swallow him up like the open ocean. 

“You go to Gotham High, right?” Grayson asks. 

Oh, great. The guy would probably put up flyers all around the school, pasting Jason’s face over gaudy rainbow letters: _ Jason Todd is a queer! This guy’s some kind of homo! _

Jason clears his throat and looks away. “I’m about to graduate,” he replies, as if that will make a difference.

Grayson’s grin widens. “I know,” he says. “Here. Come sit with us. Or, you know, you can just stand there like a turd.”

He scoffs. “Who—”

“Come _ on _.” Grayson’s long fingers wrap around Jason’s wrist and tug him toward the couch. 

Before he even realizes what is happening, he’s on his ass, wedged between Grayson and Green Hat guy with a cup of water in his hand. 

“I’m Dick, he/him,” Grayson says. “This here is Stef, she/they, and Roy, he/him. Guys, this is—your name’s Jason, right? Jason Todd?”

“Yeah,” Jason mumbles into his water.

“Right. Jason. We went to school together, sort of.”

Roy nods in greeting. He’s pretty straight for a queer, Jason thinks, with a square jaw and shaggy red hair. Maybe he’s from California, or something.

The blond chick, Stef, leans forward, resting her muscular arms over her thighs. She studies him like a ripe banana for a moment, then says, “I don’t remember you.”

“Yes you do,” Dick says, laughing. “Senior night at the stadium? Against the Jokers? That one sophomore?”

With a start, Jason realizes where’s going with this. “You don’t have to—”

“That was _ you?_” Stef is staring at him, wide-eyed. “Oh my god, are you okay?”

Jason grumbles. “It’s nothing.”

“Care to fill a guy in?” Roy asks.

“This kid,” Stef says, wagging a pale finger at Jason, “got flattened. Utterly steamrolled. I didn’t know the human body could bend that way.”

“We had to call an ambulance,” Dick interjects.

“Yeah, an _ ambulance._” 

“No way!”

Great. Three minutes into this mistake and he’s already being mocked by Rainbow Youth. “It was nothing,” Jason says. “A concussion.”

“Dude, it’s okay.” Dick pats his upper arm. Jason recoils, but no one seems to notice. “We’ve all been there.”

“Yeah. It sounds like a big freaking deal,” Roy says.

“Roy’s from Star City,” explains Dick. “Our dads are—”

“Friends.”

“Friends, yeah.” 

Jason says nothing. He wonders what it would be like to know Bruce Wayne, let alone be related to him. What kind of privileges does that life hold? What kind of problems? 

After a moment, he asks, “Do they know?”

“Know what?”

He gestures vaguely around the room. “Where you are.” 

“Oh.” Dick laughed. “Yeah.”

Jason had never seen anyone laugh about being queer. “Oh,” he says. Of course. He should have known. There’s no way Golden Boy would keep secrets from his father. No way Golden Boy would feel uncomfortable about what he is. Boy Wonder’s never gone to bed hungry, and he’s never had to busk for cash to pay off dealers. To him, everything must be one giant fucking joke. 

God, is life unfair. 

“So what are you?” Stef asks suddenly.

“What?”

“I mean, I’m a total dyke.”

“I’m bi,” Roy says. 

Dick winks. “Same here.” 

“What is this, some kind of gay athlete club?” Jason asks, noting the ropes of muscle along Dick’s arms, the way his shoulders are solid beneath his tee shirt. He could almost picture him shirtless, all lines and angles over that deep olive skin—

“Why?” laughs Roy. “You want in?”

_ Shit _ . _ What the fuck was that? _

“I’m not... I mean, I’m just here because—” _ Think, dammit! _“—it’s for a research project.” 

The three others exchange looks. Any moment, they’ll stand up and show him the door, and he wouldn’t mind, not one fucking bit. After all, this space isn’t for him. It _ isn’t _. 

“Okay,” Stef says at last. “You know how to play poker?”

“I don’t have any money.”

“We play with goldfish.” Roy says it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He stands and stretches, and it takes Jason only a nanosecond to recognize the small bruises along the white flesh of his underarms. He’s seen those in the crook of his mom’s arms for as long as he can remember. Track marks. _ Shit. _ At least one of them isn’t perfect.

“I’ll help you with the fish,” Stef says. She stands and follows Roy over to the refreshments table. They start chatting with Kate along the way, nodding excitedly at something that Jason cannot hear. 

“So, Mr. Research Project,” Dick begins, and Jason’s face goes red. He can only scowl as Dick scoots closer and leans in, his face half an inch away from Jason’s. He smells like pine trees and maple syrup. “How’s senior year going for you?” 

_ They know. Time to get the fuck out of here. _

“It’s alright.” 

“Any A.P. Exams?”

“English lit.” 

Dick sucks air between his teeth. “That one sucked.” 

Jason shrugs in response. 

“What about schools? Heard back from any of those.” 

“No.”

“Do you still play football?”

“Fuck no.”

“Your eyes are such an interesting shade of blue. Almost teal. Very pretty.”

Jason is silent. 

After a moment, Dick throws his head back and laughs loudly. “Christ, man,” he says, “you’re not giving me much to work with here.”

“I don’t know,” Jason replies. He takes another sip of water and swirls the cup around like its a fine merlot. “You seem to know me pretty well already.”

“Is this about the football thing? I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Thought you’d find it funny by now.” 

“I don’t care about the football thing.”

“Then what is it?”

“Why don’t you mind your own fucking business?” Jason snaps. A few people turn to stare at him, their eyes wide in shock or curiosity. God damn it. Leave it to him to draw even more attention to himself. How soon before someone else recognizes him and starts talking?

If anything, Dick looks disappointed, staring at Jason with this pitiful look that makes him sick to his stomach. 

“I... I should go,” Jason stammers. He sets down the cup of water and practically runs out of the room, his heart hammering in his ears. Only when he is safe outside the community center does he allow himself the chance to breathe.

_ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _

He walks quickly towards the bus stop, cursing himself for being so damned stupid. What the hell was he thinking? That he’d just waltz right in there and everyone would believe it was an accident? A mistake? Fucking _ idiot! _

As he boards the bus to the East End, he thinks,_ at least I didn’t see anyone from school. _Well. He didn’t see anyone who is still in school, anyway. 

The entire ride, he buries himself in his homework, as if it could make him forget. It doesn’t, but at least he’s getting his homework done. One less thing to worry about when he gets back to his apartment. He’d be able to pick his mom off the floor and make dinner without having to worry about calculus or physics or English. 

It’s practically evening when he gets back, and his mom isn’t on the floor of their living room. There’s nothing but scratched furniture and beer cans. An empty pizza box from weeks ago. A basket of laundry that no one has bothered to fold. The TV is still on, blaring some right-wing crap about money and politics. Jason walks over, and turns it off.

He hates this part, the part where he goes looking for his mom. There is never any telling what state she might be in, alive or dead or somewhere in-between. Sometimes he pictures himself kneeling by a limp body, shaking its shoulder until he realizes that there is no one left inside. 

It’s the only thing that makes him cry.

Taking a deep breath, Jason pushes open the door to the bathroom, and sighs in relief. His mom is standing before the mirror, forcing a brush through knotted hair. He can tell she’s high before he even sees the pills. It’s in the way her eyes are glazed over and her movements are sluggish, thoughtless. 

“Hi, mom,” he says slowly. He takes the brush from her hand and sets it down on the sink.

She moves as if the brush were still in her hand. “Jason?”

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Is Tommy here?” 

Jason flinches at the mention of her dealer. “No.”

“He’s coming, I think.”

_ Fuck _ . Now that’s _ really _the last thing he needs. 

“Tell him not to come, okay?” I’m gonna make us some food. Are you hungry?”

His mom is swaying on her feet, as if she hears some ethereal music coming from the vents. She doesn’t say anything, so he repeats himself:

“Tell Tommy that he shouldn’t come over.”

There is the slightest hint of a nod. Jason sighs, and leaves his mom to her dancing. 

The apartment is a mess. Hell, it’s an insult to messes to call it a mess. Dirty dishes on every surface, grime on the counters, dust on the floors, and piles of papers and trash spread over everywhere else. If Jason came in as a stranger, he would be afraid to breathe. 

He picks up best he can, throwing trash into the bag and putting all the dishes in the sink. Wetting an old rag, he wipes the counters down, then sweeps up as much dirt as he can. Maybe if the apartment is cleaner, his mom won’t feel the need to be so spaced out all the time. Maybe. 

When everything looks okay, he goes to the fridge and checks out what little food they have. Eggs (old). Milk (expired). Tomatoes (squishy). There’s a few tortillas in one of the drawers, and some pre-cooked potatoes in a bag in the freezer. 

Cool. He can work with this. 

Jason is almost done re-heating the potatoes when he hears a key in the front door. _ Shit. _He knows who it is by the smell of liquor and gasoline. It was stupid of him to trust that his mom would remember to send the text. Not as stupid as going to the Rainbow Youth Center, but still pretty damn stupid.

Tommy bursts through, his bulky frame struggling to avoid the trash bags in his path. “What the fuck?” he yells. A cigarette dangles between his fingers. “Jesus Christ. Where’s your mother?”

Jason ignores him.

“I said, where’s your mother you little freak?”

“Go away, Tommy. She’s all set.”

“Yeah?” The man walks over to him and turns off the stove. Jason tries not to shrink away from his huge, meaty arms and the smoke that drips from his lips. “No one asked me if I was set.” 

“That’s because we don’t care.” 

There is a sizzle, and the inside of his arm erupts in pain. Jason cries out and tugs himself away from the larger man, watching a red welt grow on his skin. A cigarette burn. “What the fuck?” he growls. “Get the fuck out of here.” 

Tommy smirks and tosses the cigarette to the floor. Grinding it into the linoleum, he says, “She owes me. That whore mother of yours. Two-forty.” 

“For what? The thrill of your presence? _ Fuck! _” Another wave of pain washes down his arm. The burn is pulsing, throbbing. He clutches his arm, itching to grab a napkin, paper towel, anything he can wet and apply to the wound. 

“Yeah. You can say that.” Tommy wraps a hand around his collar and yanks him so close that Jason can feel the heat of his breath. “I’m not going to ask you again,” he hisses. “Where’s. Your. Mother?” 

“Her unemployment hasn’t come in this month,” Jason says. “She doesn’t have the money.” 

“Find it, then.” 

_ Damn_. Jason forces himself to stand tall. At six feet and nearly two-hundred pounds, he’s not the giant Tommy is, but he’s still big. Big enough to be a challenge, at least. Maybe the bastard’s feeling lazy tonight.

“Or what, asshole?” he sneers. “Got another cigarette?”

Tommy’s fist slams into his face. Jason keels, eyes watering from the force of the blow. His jaw is on fire. When his vision clears, his blood freezes. There’s a knife in his face. A god-damn bowie knife. 

“How about this,” the dealer says. “You pay me, or I find another way to get the cash.” He drags the point of the knife over Jason’s chest, pressing just hard enough to make his heart race. 

And then the knife creeps higher, up to his throat. “I could always use a mule, you know,” Tommy continues. Slowly, the edge bites into his skin. A tendril of blood runs down the tendons of his neck, soaking into his collar. The man grins. “The cops would never suspect a freak like you. How do you like the sound of that, huh?” 

Jason growls but says nothing, wary of the blade against his skin.

With the flick of a wrist, Tommy points the knife toward the apartment. “Get the money, or I’ll find someone else to cut.”

“Fuck you,” Jason mumbles, walking into his mom’s bedroom. His pulse cools a little when he sees her curled up on the mattress. Asleep, thank god. If she were awake, she’d start making promises he knew she couldn’t keep. 

He pulls the shoebox full of cash out from the closet and counts the money. When he returns with a fistful of cash, he aches to knock the wicked smile off Tommy’s face.

“Here,” he snarls, thrusting the bills into Tommy’s chest. “Two-forty. Get out.” 

“Good boy. I knew I could count on you.” The dealer walks away, flipping over the pan of food on the stove. It crashes to the ground, spilling everywhere. “Oops.”

Jason doesn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing the anger on his face. He waits until the door is closed before his shoulders fall and his hands begin to tremble. Slowly, he walks over to the door and turns the lock, turning the deadbolt just to be safe. Fuck, his arm hurts. 

“Jason?” 

His mom stands in the doorway of her bedroom. The high must be wearing off; her eyes are clearer and her movements more controlled. When she sees the food splattered over the floor, she frowns.

“It’s nothing, Mom,” he says, turning away so she doesn’t see his face or neck.

“Was Tommy here?”

“He just left. I dropped the pan. Go back to bed.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me he was here? Did you give him money?”

“Don’t worry about it, Mom.”

His mom rubs her hands into her eyes and groans. “God damn it, Jase. I can’t believe—I just can’t—" She stifles a sob. “Can’t you do anything right?”

Something in him breaks. “I’m sorry.” 

“Oh god, oh god,” she whimpers. Before Jason can say anything else, she drifts back into her room and shuts the door. A few more drops of blood spill down his neck. There’s nothing but him and his thoughts. 

He cleans up the floor before he downs two cans of beer and sits out on the balcony, waiting for the tips of his fingertips to go numb. Screw Tommy. And screw the Rainbow Youth Center, too. Those bastards go about laughing and joking like there isn’t a real world out here, a world full of people who have too much on their plate and yet too little, who can’t afford to be queer because they’re already afraid of everything. 

It makes him think of Dick, perfect fucking Dick, with his pretty eyes and pretty smile. How can he laugh about it? It’s not fucking funny when you’re fucking _ broken! _

Jason grits his teeth and leans into the balcony railing. He wishes he could fold into himself again and again until there is nothing left. It’s not like anyone would miss him. Maybe Grant. And maybe his dad, too, though he doubts it. 

Cold wind blows over his face, freezing his eyes in their sockets. He doesn’t really feel much of it anymore. His head’s getting a little foggy. 

But hey. The day’s almost over, so it can’t get any worse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves hands frantically*  
help me


	2. Gotham High School

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Definitely not a one-shot. (Whoops!)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include: homophobia, references to drugs

_ “We need to break up,” Isabel says, and Jason shatters. _

_ “What? Why?” he asks. _

_ “I’m not going to be your beard, Jason.” _

_ It takes him a moment to understand what she’s saying. “I’m not gay,” he tells her. As the words pass his lips, he swears that they’re true. _

_ “Really?” Isabel smiles sadly. “Because you kinda shut down every time we have sex” _

_ “No I don’t.” _

_ “Yes you do. You get really quiet and start drinking.” _

_ Fuck. She’s right. He _ does _ do that. “I’m not fucking gay,” he says again, because it’s the only thing he can say. “I’ve been attracted to girls since forever. I’m attracted to _ you _ .” _

_ Isabel looks at him. Then suddenly her lips are on his. It’s a slow kiss, a deep kiss, and soon Jason’s hands are on her waist. When Isabel’s fingers creep into the waist band of his jeans, he jerks away. _

_ “See?” she says. “That’s not normal.” _

_ Jason motions to the environment around them. They’re standing on a trail in Central Park, where anyone can round the corner and find them there. “People might see us,” he says. _

_ “It’s practically evening.” _

_ “You never know.” _

_ “Oh my god. You’re unbelievable.” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You know you’re the only guy I’ve ever met who doesn’t like blow jobs?” _

_ “I didn’t say that. I said I wasn’t ready.” _

_ She waves him off. “Same thing.” _

_ Jason stares at her. She stares back. Before he can stop himself, he leans down and kisses her again, cupping her face in his hands. Isabel shoves him away. _

_ “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she hisses. _

_ “Shit. I really like you.” _

_ And he does: he likes her hair, her name, the smell of apples and honey that radiates from her skin, the chimes of her laughter. He likes talking to her. He likes kissing her. She’s just so pretty. _

_ Isabel draws a hand through her short blonde hair and sighs. “Look,” she says, “you clearly have some things to work out. There’s something wrong with you, and it’s not my job to fix it.” _

_ “But—” _

_ “See you at school, Jason. I won’t tell anyone.” _

***

Isabel sits with her friends around a plastic picnic table, giggling as she eats Chinese take out. She doesn’t see him watching from across the school yard, but he also knows she wouldn’t care if she did. Jason wonders if she kept her promise, or if all of her friends think he’s gay.

“You look like shit,” Grant says. He slams his tray down next to Jason and slides onto the bench, grinning like a madman. His light hair is sticking up in places, as if he’d fallen asleep in class again. “Who’d you fight? Victor Stone?”

“Your sister.” 

“No fucking way. You’d have a lot more than a bruise and—” His eyes narrow. “Did someone try to bleed you?”

“I swallowed a razor. You gonna eat that?” Jason points at his apple. 

“It’s all yours.” 

“Thanks.” Jason grabs the apple and eats a quarter of it in one bite, chewing slowly to get the most out of the flavor. He’s qualified for the free lunch program his entire life, but it’s really not enough for a person of his size, and he’s sick to death of eating protein bars for meal after meal. The only time he gets fruit is when someone else doesn’t want it. 

Grant picks up a fry and throws it into his mouth. “But seriously man,” he says. “Someone knife you at the construction yard yesterday?”

“I wasn’t working.” 

His friend raises an eyebrow. “Um, yes you were, dipshit. You said you couldn’t go to Hunter’s party because you had to work.” 

_ Oh shit _ . Jason nearly chokes on the apple. “I mean,” he stammers, “I had work to do. I didn’t have to go _ to _work.” 

“Oh. The party was fun, in case you were wondering. Lots of hot chicks. There was this one girl, with red hair, and fuck! I’m telling you, her ass would’ve made you forget Isabel.” 

“Fuck you, Wilson.”

“Jesus. Someone’s touchy.” 

Jason doesn’t say anything. He finishes the apple and throws the core into the bushes behind them. The pigeons will get it, or the squirrels, or someone even worse off than he is. 

Grant picks at the crescents of dirt beneath his fingernails. “Are you going to soccer practice today?”

“Obviously, stupid.”

“Coach Clover wants us to scrimmage the girls’ team. He’s got a bet with his sister. Loser buys the winning team pizza.” 

Jason rolls his eyes. “And you’re telling me this why?” 

“The _ girls’ _team, Todd,” Grant says. “Wear something tight. They like that shit.” 

“Do you ever think about things that don’t have tits?”

“What, like books? Fuck that.”

An exasperated laugh escapes Jason’s lips. He doesn’t know if he’s trying to relieve the tension in his shoulders, or if he really is fed up with Grant’s shit. Still, he knows he can’t blame the idiot for fucking around at school. Grant’s dad makes bank with some military contracting firm. They live in a _ brownstone _. He’s not relying on school to drag himself out of the trench of poverty.

Speaking of... Jason pulls out his phone to check his email. There’s an advertisement for running shoes, some public announcement about traffic, spam. Nothing from schools. God damn it.

“How are your mom’s treatments coming?” Grant asks out of nowhere.

Jason shoves his phone back into his jeans. After four years, the lies come easily now. “Fine. Doc says things look good.”

“Hell yeah! Fuck cancer.” Grant smiles and gives him a friendly shove. “You know you can always borrow a car to get her to the lab, right?”

He nods. Sometimes he wonders why he doesn’t give his mom a miracle cure and let everyone know the truth. _ My mom’s an addict. A proper junkie. A needle whore. _After all, he’s a legal adult now; too old to be taken away by the state. What can people do anymore? 

_ A lot _ , Jason reminds himself. People love cancer patients but condemn druggies, even though they’re equally sick and left behind by the system. He’d go from _ Poor Jason _ to _ That Fucking Enabler _. Hell, he doesn’t even want to imagine the rumors that would fly if people found out he went to the Rainbow Youth Center. Poor, queer, and druggie mix about as well as baking soda and vinegar.

At least people like Ron or Roy or whatever his name was have money. They have the luxury of being clubbers. Party animals. Hedonists. 

_ Fuck _. Why is he even thinking about this shit? It doesn’t matter. It was a mistake. 

As if on cue, he sees Rayner and Blue Chick walking across the school yard while having a friendly argument of some kind. His gut twists into knot. Rayner’s hair is bright green and overly styled, and Blue Chick wears a denim jacket covered in pins and patches. It fascinates him, the way they can go about their day dressing as they do and being _ proud _of it. 

“Oh Christ,” Grant says, thrusting his chin at Rayner. “Look at that. That shit’s stupid, right?” 

Jason pauses, shock-still. _ Is he testing me? _

“I mean, those homos are just _ asking _ to be beat. Why do they have to be so...you know. _ Gay? _”

Without thinking, he says, “That’s not funny.”

“You’re right,” Grant replies. “It’s pathetic.”

Jason doesn’t know how to reply so he sits silently, watching the two of them get closer and closer to their table. God. It’s even in the way that they walk. Rayner is light-footed and flighty, and Blue Chick has a heavy, masculine gait. He’s not like that at all. 

Then suddenly Grant is shouting. “You two bearding for each other or something?” 

_ Oh fuck _. Jason’s heart seizes. 

“Excuse me?” Blue Chick says. Her eyes narrow accusingly. 

“You know no one is going to believe that shit,” he says.

“_ Grant! _” Jason hisses. But his friend just laughs.

“What? You’re defending these queers?” 

“I—I don’t know.”

Blue Chick flips the two of them off. “Fuck off,” she says. There’s a button on her vest right next to her hand: GENDERS ARE FOR LOSERS. 

“Yeah. Get bent, assholes,” Rayner adds. “Come on, Harper.” 

When they are out of sight, Grant stands and heaves his backpack over his shoulder. “God. What a couple of freaks.”

“_ Douchebag! _” Jason slugs him on the arm. It’s not hard enough to bruise or hurt, even, but it’s not a friendly tap either. “I can’t believe you’d do something like that.”

“What?” Grant cackles and dodges another swing of Jason’s fist. “It’s not like they can’t take it. Why do you even care?” 

Standing, Jason grabs his backpack. He doesn’t want to make eye contact, just in case Grant can read his expression. “I’m a nice person, I guess.”

“Bullcrap! You’re a piece of shit just like the rest of us.” 

“Whatever. The bell’s about to ring.”

Before Grant can say anything else, Jason walks back to the C Building, kicking the grass beneath his feet. He teeters between wishing he had stood up for them and being relieved that he didn’t. Was it cruel not to? Yeah, kind of. Was he better off not raising any questions? Most definitely. 

Talk about a rock and a hard place.

In English they do this stupid drill where everyone’s assigned a famous writer and has two words to communicate who they have. It’s mostly to prepare them for the A.P. exam, but it’s also because the instructor, Mr. Hall, is out with the flu, and the substitute is the one of the acting teachers. 

When it’s Jason’s turn, he stares at the name in his hand, wary of the eyes on his face. Everyone expects him to be the dumb jock. How could they not? He’s big and listens to angry music and lets his friends make fun of gay kids. 

Maybe no one actually thinks he’s gay. Maybe they think he’s the guy that shoves queers into lockers. But that’s not much better, really.

Clearing his throat, he says, “I’m nobody,” and sits back down.

“That’s a shitty clue,” someone whispers. 

“No it’s not,” Rayner says. He stares at Jason darkly, and Jason shrinks in his chair. “You’re Emily Dickinson. You’re nobody.” 

“Yeah,” he mutters, crushing the paper in his fist. Even when he looks away, he can feel Rayner’s gaze on the back of his neck. It’s all he can think about through the William Shakespeares and Lord Byrons and Maya Angelous. 

Most days he hates leaving English class. But today, the bell is a blessing. 

In his rush to get to his locker he nearly runs over Isabel. She gasps and steps backward, nearly dropping her bookbag. Jason’s tongue goes fat and limp as a sponge. 

“Jesus Christ, Jason,” Isabel says.

“I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Uh huh.” She looks up and him and narrows her eyes. “What the hell happened to your face? Did someone—”

“I fell down some stairs.” 

“Right. And Bruce Wayne’s a janitor.” 

Despite everything, Jason feels himself smiling. He’s always admired her quick tongue. “Isabel,” he starts.

“Don’t.” 

“Please.” His voice low so others can’t hear. “Give me a chance to prove—”

She cuts him off. “I don’t want _ proof _, Jason.”

“Then what?”

“You need help,” she replies, spinning on her heels to join her friends down the hallway. He watches her go, feeling every bit as stupid as he probably looks. A dumb jock indeed. 

The final period of the day goes by in a blur. Ms. Adams shows them graphs and makes them find the area under curves, then gives them the rest of the time to work on their homework. And then all of a sudden he’s in the locker room, changing into his cleats and shin guards with two dozen other guys around him. Some are shirtless, others wear tank tops that hug their chests and frame their shoulders.

_ You’re _ not _ attracted to guys _, Jason reminds himself. After all, if he were, wouldn’t he be checking them out? Getting hard, or something?

Grant nudges him. “Tight clothes, man,” he says. “I’m telling you. These girls have thighs that could crush you.”

“Great.”

His friend continues, ignoring him. “‘Course, maybe not _ you _, but that’s because you’re a fucking brick wall. I can’t believe they let you quit football.” 

“Football didn’t want me.” 

“Well, soccer’s glad to have you.”

Jason finishes tying his cleat and stands, twisting his body to crack his back. “Are we really going to scrimmage the girls’ team?” he asks, thinking of Blue Chick. Harper. _ She’s on that team, isn’t she? _

“Are you calling me a liar, Todd?” 

“No.” 

“Then why are you asking?”

“Alright. _ Damn _.” Jason grabbed his water bottle and headed for the door. “Let’s get this over with.”

He was right about Harper. She’s one of the three girls taking a lap around the track, passing a ball between them. For the briefest of seconds he considers going over to her, apologizing for Grant and for himself, and telling her that he likes her vest. 

Shit. He’s just full of stupid ideas, isn’t he?

“Todd!” 

Jason looks up. Coach Clover is beckoning for him to come, grinning like a madman. Sometimes Jason forgets that his coach isn’t that much older than him. This is not one of those times.

“You’re cool playing defense today?” he asks after Jason’s jogged over.

“Yeah.”

“Great. Don’t break any of my sister’s players. We want to beat them, not _ crush _ them, if you know what I mean.” 

He doesn’t, but he nods anyway. 

“They’ve got fast strikers, so you’re gonna have to anticipate what their offense is gonna do. That little blue one, she’s a bullet.”

_ Oh great _. “Anticipate. Don’t crush. Got it.”

“Sweet.” He claps Jason on the shoulder. “Go run a lap with the rest of the guys. I’m gonna go make fun of Claire. Hey, Claire!”

Jason watches as his coach runs over to the girls’ team and starts gesturing toward his sister, then joins the rest of his team. They run. Stretch. Run again. Shoot. Pass balls back and forth, _ one two one two one two _. 

“Heard Coach wants you on defense today.” Bart, a forward, kicks the ball to him. Jason traps it with the inside of his foot. 

“Yep.”

“Think you’re fast enough for the job?”

“No one’s as fast as you, Allen,” Jason replies, kicking the ball back.

“Thanks. Not what I was asking.”

He grunts in reply, then follows the team as they gather on the sidelines. Coach Clover gives them some stupid shpeel (“Don’t lose. I mean, we won’t. But don’t lose.”) and then they’re on the field. Jason jumps up and down to loosen his legs, surveying the team ahead of him. Grant was right; a few of them do have really good legs. But then again a few of the guys on his team have good legs too. What’s the big deal? 

From the corner of his vision, he sees Harper flipping someone off. Rayner’s on the sidelines, giving her a thumbs-up as he mouths: _ take them out _.

Jason is too wrapped up in it to hear the whistle blow. People start running, shouting. The ball goes right, left. He thinks his team is in possession, but it seems to change in the blink of an eye. When someone passes him the ball, he sends it to Virgil, who takes it up the field. At some point, Bart gets a hold of the ball, and dribbles it through their defense, looking like a red and white blur. He shoots; misses. Free kick. The goalie sends the ball soaring down the field, right in front of Harper. 

Who is right in front of Jason. 

He freezes.

Harper looks at him, smiles, and sends the ball flying. Right. Into. His. Face. 

Jason doesn’t even have the time to throw up his arms. It knocks him square on the nose, and his eyes water from the impact. Through the blur he can see the ball has landed in front of him, but something blue gets to it before he even registers what is going on. A shoulder drives into his side, and he’s on his ass. 

Seconds later, there’s a cheer. Someone’s scored, and he doesn’t think it was his side.

“Foul!” someone shouts. “She didn’t play the ball!”

“Fuck off, Allen!” 

_ That’s Harper’s voice _, he thinks. Loud. Boisterous. 

“Todd!” Grant stands over him, glaring. “What the fuck? Get up!”

He does, brushing dirt off his ass. His entire face throbs. “Fuck,” he groans. “Am I bleeding?”

“Aw!” Harper shouts from across the field. She’s at the sidelines, high-fiving Rayner. “Poor babies!”

“You’re nobody!” Rayner yells. 

Jason averts his eyes. _ I deserve this _.

Grant looks like he’s about to say something crude, but seems to decide against it at the last moment. Probably because he doesn’t want to piss off the entire girls’ varsity team. “Come on,” he says. “You’re making us look like a bunch of pussies. Not cool.”

“Fuck off, Wilson.”

“Fuck _ you _, Todd,” his friend spits. Then he laughs. “Come on, pussy. Get your ass back to defense.”

Jason huffs, jogging back over to his place in the defensive line. His team resets the ball, and the game starts once again. Rayner shouts at him the entire game. 

“Nobody’s got the ball!” he screams. “Watch out, everybody!”

“Shut up, faggot!” someone yells back. Rayner merely laughs in response. 

_ Oh god _. Jason shuts out everything but the ball, watching it speed between legs and fly over heads. Nothing has changed. He’s just a guy playing a game he’s played for years. So why does he feel sick?

In the end his team wins 2–1, thanks to a few good crosses from Virgil. Most people want to shake hands afterward, a few mutter angrily about offside plays and fouls that weren’t called. He floats through all of it. And then he floats through the cooldown drills and a shower in the locker room.

Well. That’s not quite true. He stares at the tile floor of the locker room, water dripping from his hair, afraid that if he looks up, he’ll find himself looking at the guys in a way he’s not supposed to. Maybe they’ll start appearing in his dreams too, and then he’ll have to deal with _ that _. 

Virgil pats him on the back. They’re both wet and shirtless, smelling like cheap shampoo. “Defense isn’t your strong suit,” he says, but it’s not unkind. It’s reassuring. 

Jason clears his throat and smiles. “Yeah,” he says. He keeps his eyes trained on Virgil’s face, but the action seems almost intimate, so he looks away. Boys shouldn’t stare at other boys.

“Move, Hawkins,” says Grant. “I gotta talk to this guy.”

“Damn, Wilson. Sorry to get between you and your boyfriend.” 

“Oh, she wishes,” his friend says, and Jason goes beet red. 

_ He knows. He knows. Oh, fuck. He knows. _

But he doesn’t. Grant stands in front of him, a stupid smile spread over his face. “Man,” he says, “you have _ got _to come with me to this party tomorrow.”

“Weren’t you just at a party?”

“Yeah. But it was kinda lame. This one will be good. Saturday night shit. You’re not working, are you? Your mom have an appointment or something?”

“How many parties can there be in all week?”

“Gotham’s a big-ass city,” Grant says. “I have a lot of connections. Come on, it’ll be _ fun _. You need a distraction, anyway.”

Jason lets out an annoyed sigh. “Who are you trying to set me up with?” 

“What?” His friend has the gall to appear shocked. “No one. Honest.”

Tugging a shirt over his head, Jason says, “I don’t know, man.”

“Fuck,” Grant laughs. “What’s wrong with you? It’s free booze.” 

Jason pauses. He thinks about Isabel, what she said that night in the park. _ There’s something wrong with you _, she said, and maybe she was right. He’s supposed to like parties. He’s supposed to want to get wasted and want to makeout with girls who have huge tits and tiny waists. 

That first part he’d do gladly, at least. And maybe that’s the push he needs to get over whatever crap is making him think he’s gay. Maybe it’s some kind of hormone deficiency. Alcohol has an effect on hormones, right?

“Who’s throwing the party?” he asks. 

“I don’t know. Some private school kid.”

“Thought you said you had connections.”

“I weave a complicated web, Todd,” Grant says. 

With a sigh, Jason slips on his shoes and grabs his backpack. His phone tells him that he has twelve minutes until the last bus to East End departs from the metro station. And he really, really doesn’t want to walk home, because that means passing by the Rainbow Youth Center, where someone like Stef or Grayson could lean out the window and shout his name—

“I’ll get back to you,” he mumbles, and heads out. He’s just past the entrance of the school when he hears someone call out to him.

“Hey, nobody.”

_ Fuck _. Jason turns around. Rayner and Harper are sitting on a bench, arms crossed and looking sour. 

“Hi,” he chokes out. 

“We let you guys win,” Harper says. “Just so you know.”

Jason finds himself saying, “I know. I’m sorry.” 

His reply seems to confuse them. He can’t blame them for this; it confuses him too. Why the fuck would he say that now? What’s _ wrong _with him? 

“Did—did you just apologize?” she asks. 

“Um, yeah.” Jason adjusts the straps of his backpack. He doesn’t know where to look.

“Well.” Rayner crosses his arms over his chest. “We don’t accept it.”

“That’s fair.”

Harper studies him. She’s still wearing her practice clothes, and is covered in dirt and grass stains. For the first time, Jason notices that she has freckles. 

“You’re weird,” she says, and his lungs implode. Part of him wants to point out the irony; another worries that she’s right. 

“Look,” he stammers, “I have a bus to catch. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Whatever.”

“Bye, nobody.”

Jason practically runs away from them. Only when he gets to the bus stop does he realize that he’s no longer breathing. _It’s alright_, he tells himself, gasping for air. He’ll get home, pick up Mom, do his homework. And tomorrow, he’ll go to a party, find a girl, and prove to Isabel that he’s not gay. He’s _not_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did play soccer throughout high school. Why do you ask? 
> 
> On another note, DC totally should have let Harper and Jason interact more. They have so many similarities...I honestly can't believe.


	3. North Warren Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry in advance. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> A brief note on the warnings: The end of this chapter depicts a brief, non-explicit sexual encounter in which one party is under the influence of alcohol. If this is a trigger for you, you can view a PDF of this chapter with these parts removed [here](https://pdfhost.io/v/HcRjx6gLA_North_Warren_Streetpdf.pdf). Also, if you think I need to update my warnings, please let me know. 
> 
> Other warnings include: underage drinking and drug use.

He’s never been to this part of Gotham before, where the townhouses are glass and brick and worth more per month than he’d be lucky to see in a year. Hell, there isn’t even a bus stop near here—he had to walk six blocks just to get to North Warren Street. That’s the type of money these people have: “I don’t even want to see poor people” money. 

It almost makes him feel bad, leaving his mom in their apartment while he hangs out in Burnley with a bunch of people he’s never met before. Hell, forget “almost.” He feels bad that he only left her a lame sandwich in the fridge. He feels bad that he put her on the couch and turned on a movie. He feels bad that he looked her in the eyes and said, “I’m going to the library, Mom. Be back soon,” like some kind of teenage rebel. 

At least Grant was right. There is a _ lot _of free booze. 

Jason lingers by the cooler, fiddling with the sleeves of his flannel as he decides whether or not to start talking to someone. Anyone. Half of the people he’s seen randomly at school—passing through the hallways, tacking up announcements on bulletin boards, answering a question in class—and the other half are strangers. Private school kids, he guesses. 

_ Why is this so hard? _Normally he’s fine in big crowds. Not a party animal, but not a wallflower either. Just one of those people who hangs out, has a decent time, and goes home with the mild euphoria of a buzz. Well. Except for that one time someone gave him pot brownies, but he didn’t know they were pot brownies, so he ate three. That was eight hours of paranoia that he’s never getting back.

The party isn’t crazy or anything. There’s a few clumps of people dancing to heavy electronica while the pulse of the bass sends shivers up Jason’s legs. Others are hanging in groups, chatting, laughing, swaying to the beat. Out back a group is passing a joint around in a circle. Other than the location and designer clothes and the few people on coke and molly, it’s not at al different from the parties Grant has dragged him to before.

Speaking of, where the fuck is Grant? 

Jason grabs another beer, his second of the night. It pops open with a hiss, and he downs half of it, not even stopping for air. A dark-skinned girl looks at him and raises an eyebrow. She’s pretty in a bookish sort of way. He raises the can in some sort of toast, and the girl laughs. 

“What? Are you drunk already?” she asks.

He feigns an indignant gasp. “Please. I don’t need alcohol to be funny.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” 

_ See? This isn’t terrible. Keep going. _

“Jason,” he says.

“Karen.”

“You’re a student?”. 

“I was.”

There must be something on his face, because Karen laughs and says, “I have a boyfriend anyway.” She waves at a tall black guy on the other side of the room. “His name’s Mal. Want some advice?”

Jason blushes. “Sure.” 

“Don’t ask people if they’re students. Unless you want people to think you’re in high school. Or, like, a predator or something.” 

He’s never thought about that before, but it sounds about right. “Cool,” he replies. “Thanks for the tip, Karen.” 

“Don’t be too irresponsible, Jason.” 

“I’ll do my best.”

She winks and grabs a couple of beers from the cooler, then walks back to her boyfriend. Jason watches her settle into her place in the group. No one looks back at him, which is good, he guesses.

“Todd!” someone yells. 

Ah. There he is. 

Jason turns around in time to see Grant push his way through a group of dancing people. A girl with platinum blonde hair follows behind him, winding through people without even looking up from her phone. Rose. 

“You got here early,” Grant says.

“You said seven.” 

“Yeah, I _ said _seven, but then I had to drag Rose from softball practice. Say hi, dumbass.” 

Rose looks at her brother, then at Jason. She rolls her eyes. “Hi, dumbass.”

‘Hey Rose.”

She grunts and wanders off, still texting. In a moment, she’s disappeared into a crowd of people by the kitchen. 

“Don’t mind her,” Grant says. “PMS or some bullshit. How many of those have you had already?”

“Huh?” Jason looks down and is reminded of the drink in his hand. Beads of water have condensed on the outside, wetting his palm. “Oh. This is number two.”

“Good. I’d hate for you to get wasted without me. Wanna do some boilermakers?”

“What the fuck is that?”

Grant gestures vaguely. “You know. Shot of whiskey, lots of beer. What has your momma been teaching you?”

Jason laughs uncomfortably. _ You have no idea. _“I don’t do fancy shit,” he says. “You know me.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, man,” Grant laughs, “you’re with me now. I’ve got you covered. Besides, boilermakers are sports bar fancy. Totally your style.”

“So is beer.” 

“Beer is boring. Come on. Let’s go let’s go let’s go!”

_ Ugh. _Jason rolls his eyes. “Are you high or something?”

A wide smile stretches across Grant’s face. That’s an answer enough. 

Sighing, Jason follows him into the kitchen, sipping at his beer to get used to the soft bite of alcohol. The people around him smell like sweat and body spray. More are arriving every minute, and even though he knows he is not drunk he feels as if a haze has settled over the room. Then someone shouts for lights, and the room is thrown into dim, oscillating colors. It might have been fun if he were still with Isabel and didn’t think he had a problem.

“So,” Grant says, pouring him a shot of whiskey. “Meet anyone yet?”

“Some girl named Karen. She was nice.”

“_ Nice? _ You’re not here to make _ friends _, Todd. Look,” he says, setting down the bottle, “See that girl? In the white shorts?”

Jason looks over to the bar. The girl in the white shorts is tall, blonde, and pink. She’s talking with a redhead girl he recognizes from school. A tennis player, he thinks. The two of them seem to be gossiping, judging by the looks on their faces.

Grant raises his shot. Amber liquid drips over the side. “I’m going to take one of these, walk up to her, and ask if she wants to make out,” he says.

“How do you know she doesn’t have a boyfriend?”

“That’s Angelica Smith. From algebra?”

Jason shrugs.

“Fuck man. Here.” Grant thrusts a shot into Jason’s open hand and, tipping his head back, pours the whiskey down his throat. After, he hisses between his teeth, cracks open a beer, and downs that too. “Hurry up, and maybe you can snag Elise.” 

_ What if I don’t want to snag Elise? _thinks Jason. He looks down at the shot in his hand. The shot looks back. Why couldn’t it be something good, like a mojito or piña colada? Beer, whiskey, vodka, they get the job done, but they taste like crap. 

Fuck. That’s gay. 

Jason downs the shot before he thinks of more stupid shit. It washes down in a rich, smoky flavor, burning his throat and bringing color to his face. Before he can cough, he washes down the warmth with the rest of the beer. It’s not unpleasant, but it makes his organs reel. 

He waits. The warmth of the liquid washes through him, filling him from his legs to the tips of his fingers. Grant is talking with the two girls by the bar, grinning wildly, nodding in earnest to whatever Angelica is saying. He makes it look so _ easy _ . Like it’s a part of his nature. Boy meets girl. Boy charms girl. Boy gets laid. Where’s all the second-guessing? The part where he has to force himself to want it, really _ want _it, and not just stay content with kissing?

Though, he supposes, it _ is _ nature. Bird meet bird. Dog meet dog. Bug meet bug. It’s all the same, isn’t it? It’s what makes them _ real _.

Jason looks around at the counter. Vodka. Whiskey. Jack. That’ll do. He pours himself a Jack and Coke and keeps drinking. 

After a moment, he thinks, _ this is nice _. The music beats in his ear. People seem a little friendlier. His cheap clothes feel more comfortable. He is an ember wrapped in skin, vibrating softly as the seconds pass by. 

“Football?” someone asks. The voice is light, feminine.

It takes him a moment to realize she’s talking to him. He turns. The girl is around his age, maybe older, with pale skin and pink-tinged hair. Instagram goth. 

“Football?” he replies.

“Do you play?”

“Not anymore.”

She laughs. Her lips are dark and purple. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m Jason,” he says. 

“Dawn. Wanna get me one of those?” 

_ Oh. Okay _. He smiles at her and starts pouring. When he hands her the drink, he can smell the soft florals of her body spray. It’s pleasant, not at all harsh like the smell of cinnamon or mint. Across the room, Grant is whispering in Angelica’s ear. Jason wonders how he gets her to smile like that. What is he saying? Maybe he should just ask Dawn what she wants to talk about. Yeah. That seems like a good idea.

“What should we talk about?” he asks.

Dawn laughs again, and strangely, it doesn’t shake him. It’s more of a _ you’re funny _ laugh and less of a _ you’re lame _laugh. Weird. Maybe this alcohol thing is working.

She takes a sip of her drink. “Do you like working out?” 

“Working out? Like running and shit? Yeah.”

“Thought so.” 

“I know, I know. I’m rocking the ‘dumb jock’ look,” he replies. _ This is so easy. Say something else. _“Your hair looks nice.”

“Oh, this?” Dawn holds up a lock of her hair. “It’s so old. I’ve been meaning to dye it for weeks.”

Jason finds himself laughing. “What? Fuck off. It looks good.” 

She giggles, and something warm stirs in his belly. He wants to kiss her on her purple lips, to sit down with her and talk about books and movies and life. And he thinks that maybe she wants to kiss him too. After all, she doesn’t take her eyes off him when she drinks. That’s what attraction is, isn’t it? Looking at someone because you like what you see?

“You’ve run out,” Dawn says, pointing at his cup. 

He looks down. Huh. When did _ that _ happen? “You’re observant,” he replies.

“Want something new? Or—” She meets his eyes and smirks. “—are you too smashed already?”

“Please. I’m like, heavy and shit.” 

“Good.” Dawn grabs his hand and pulls him to the backyard patio. The people smoking have fucked off to god-knows-where, replaced by a group chilling in a hot tub and another sitting on some wicker furniture, sharing photos on their phones. Rose is with them, draped over an ottoman like a pin-up girl. Jason waves. Either she doesn’t see him, or she doesn’t care. Well. Maybe he doesn’t care, either.

Dawn makes him a white gummy bear shot. It’s sugary, and hardly burns, and so he asks her to make another. His world is a little fuzzy, but that’s okay. That’s what he’s here for, isn’t it?

“My mom’s on drugs,” he tells while they’re sitting on a couch. When did they go back inside? Was it before all the shots, or after?

“Oh shit,” Dawn replies. 

“Yeah. And her dealer did this.” He points to his face. “You know the worst part? I can’t tell anyone.”

She takes a sip of beer. “You’re telling _ me _.”

“Yeah, but you’re not _ anyone _. And I’m fucked, man.” Jason laughs, rubbing his fists into his eyes. Everything’s even hazier now, as if the city’s filled with smog. Is it hot in here? When did the music get so loud? What time is it? Where’s Grant? When did Dawn put her hand on his thigh?

_ Oh. _

“That’s so sweet,” she says. Her voice is slow. “Wanna make out?”

“Yeah,” he replies, and her lips bump into his. She tastes a little like potato chips, a lot like alcohol. Jason presses into her, wanting to touch her pink hair, wanting to cave into himself, wanting to—

—throw up. 

“Oh god.” Jumping to his feet, he throws a hand over his mouth.

“What?” Dawn asks.

Jason shakes his head. If he opens his mouth, he’s going to vomit. Dawn must realize this. All of a sudden she’s yanking him toward the bathroom and pushing him inside. 

He barely makes it to the toilet before he starts heaving. There was a time when he didn’t understand the phrase “waves of nausea,” but boy does he get it now. It starts in the lowest part of his abdomen and rolls upward, rising through his chest and crashing out of his mouth. Saliva pools around his tongue.

“Are you okay?” Dawn asks. 

“I—” Jason leans over the toilet bowl and vomits again. _ Fuck _ . He spits out a glob of saliva and braces himself against the toilet, trying not to fall over. _ When did everything start spinning? _

Dawn reaches down to rub his back in small, concentric circles. “Oh, baby,” she says softly.

He groans. God, everything hurts. His _ eyeballs _ hurt. 

“I’m gonna get you a water, ‘kay? Then we’ll find somewhere to lay down.”

Without looking, Jason gives her a thumbs up. It’s all he can do.

When she comes back, he rinses out his mouth until he can’t taste the sick anymore. After that, he doesn’t remember much. He doesn’t remember which room they went into, and he doesn’t remember whether there was anyone else inside. He doesn’t remember Dawn lying down next to him, but he does remember that they talked some more and then she asked him a question. He thinks he said yes.

She feels good. Her hands are on his chest and her legs are wrapped around his waist. She slides two fingers into his mouth and he moans, but he doesn’t know why. Why is he doing any of this? He doesn’t even—well, he _ does _, but maybe not like that, and—are they even using a condom? 

Jason wants to tell her to stop. But that would be proving everyone right, Isabel and Grant and _ everyone _. He can’t do that and he can’t do that and he can’t do that and—

He can’t do _ this _. 

“Stop!” Jason spits out. 

“What?”

“Get—_ getoffme _.” 

“Huh—” She yelps as he pushes her off and tugs his jeans back over his waist. Where are his shoes? Is he still wearing his flannel?

“What the fuck? Wait. Where are you going?” Dawn asks. 

He can’t look at her. He can’t look at himself. 

“Hey! I’m talking to you! What’s wrong? Babe—”

Jason shuts the door on her and stumbles into the hallway. He doesn’t recognize this part of the townhouse. A basement, maybe? There are people still talking upstairs, music still playing. He finds the staircase and starts climbing toward the music. Some people are still lounging around the living room, drinking. The rest are gone. Grant doesn’t seem to be anywhere.

“Hey. Buddy. You okay?”

He looks at the person talking to him. _ That’s Karen’s boyfriend _ , he thinks. _ M… Monroe? Morris? _

“Do you need someone to call you a cab?” the guy asks. 

“No,” Jason mutters. “I’m good.” 

“Are you sure?”

He nods and walks past him, pushing open the front door and nearly falling down the steps. The night is freezing cold, almost wet. Everything is dark: the streets, the townhouses, the trees that line the sidewalks. Nausea settles in the pit of his stomach, but there is nothing inside him to expel. His tongue is dry and scratchy. His head reels.

Which way to the bus stop? Left? right? There’s a sports car parked at the end of the road. A million years ago, Jason passed it on his way to the party. So he has to go right, then.

There are two blocks between him and the party when his legs turn to jelly. Jason slumps over and draws his knees into his chest, taking long, slow breaths. The chill of the air clears him enough to see things clearly: it’s too far. And the buses stopped running hours ago, anyway. He should have stayed at the party. He should have stayed with Dawn. Maybe it’s not too late to go back—

_ No. _ He can’t do that. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he texts Grant:

_ Im at te end off Lexingtonnn. Total fucked. Pic me up?? _

A minute passes. Then another. Grant doesn’t respond. He tries again. 

_ Buses not runnig anymroe. Need ride. _

Still, no response. 

Okay, okay… He can’t panic. It’s okay. This is Burnley. What’s going to happen? There aren’t any bums like Tommy to come at him with knives and bad intentions. Everyone is like Grant, living free with fat ambitions and dreams untethered to money. 

_ Grant. _ Despite everything, Jason laughs to himself. Why does a guy like that hang out with a guy like him? Sure, they like the same video games and play the same sports, and yeah, maybe Jason did give him the answers to a few quizzes, but in the end they’re so fundamentally different. Grant’s cool and funny and good with girls, and Jason’s stuck on the sidewalk, totally sloshed just after some girl—

That’s not what happened. He wasn’t—just because he’s drunk—

He gasps for air. When did he forget to keep breathing? Fuck. He needs to focus on getting home. Home. Home. Home. 

His contact list isn’t very full. There’s a few guys on the soccer team: Virgil, Bart, Richie. His mom. Tommy, for some god-forsaken reason. Isabel.

_ Need help _ , he writes. _ Dive home. _

She starts writing something back. The three dots on his screen come in waves, rippling in their little gray cloud, then disappear. 

Jason adds: _ Please _ . _ Im so srory _ . _ Sorry. _

The dots don’t come back. 

“Goddammit,” he mutters. No, not a mutter. It’s a sob. His vision blurs; his lower lip begins to quake. Before he can stop himself, he is spilling tears onto the pavement, crying into his hands. 

What the fuck is _ wrong _ with him? 

A quivering breath rolls through him. “Please, please, please,” he mutters, but he doesn’t know what he is asking for. He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know _ what _he is.

Light washes over him, bright and blinding, as a car pulls up the road. The driver doesn’t even look at him as she turns onto Lexington. Of course he’s only invisible when he does not want to be.

His mom would be asleep by now, right? Wiping his eyes, Jason runs his thumb over her name on his contact list, his chest heaving. Maybe tonight was one of her good nights. Maybe she’s up and waiting for him to come home, worrying and pacing and—

But they don’t have a car, so she can’t pick him up, which means—

Does he have to call Tommy? No, that doesn’t seem right. And Tommy would never—

Tommy would make it worse, call him a fag and a homo, maybe joke about passing him around his friends like a ragdoll—

Not that he doesn’t feel that way already—

_ Fuck. _ He’s going to pass out. He’s going to pass out on the side of the road in fucking _ Burnley _. Jason can feel it in his reeling stomach, the vertigo that takes him even though he is already on the ground and braced against a stop sign. And then someone will find him and call the police...and he’ll be taken in...and no one will want to give him a scholarship...and he’ll end up in prison like his dad…

Jason blinked hard, trying to clear the wooziness from his head. What...is he doing here? Where..._ is _here? Maybe...maybe he should call Tommy...it can’t be that bad...after all…

Suddenly, a light. Blinding. He groans and shields his eyes from whatever—whoever—is causing it. 

“Jason?”

That voice—it reminds him of the color blue. But every time he grasps at a name, it evaporates. 

“Oh damn. He’s really out of it. Can I get some help?”

Four strong hands grip him by the shoulders and pull him up. 

“Thanks, gen’lemen,” Jason slurs. “But I’m fine. Trus’ me.”

“How many drinks did you have?”

_ That’s the question _. “I dunno. A lot?”

Someone pats him on the back. No, they’re pushing him forward. Into a car. “Come on, buddy,” they say. “We’re gonna get you to a doctor.”

_ Doctor? No, no, no, no _. Something like a moan comes out of his mouth, but he can’t make himself form intelligible words. It’s too hard. And the car seat is so, so soft... 

“That’s it,” someone says. “I’m going to buckle you in now, okay?”

“Mmuuh huuuh.” 

The last thing Jason remembers is a sharp _ click _. Then shadows wash over him, and he is pulled under. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never been drunk lmao... someone tell me if I am describing it right.
> 
> *youtube voice*  
Like, share, & subscribe!!!!! :D


	4. Gotham General Hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised a lighter chapter and here it is. Some Jaydick bonding time. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include: discussions of alcoholism, mentions of domestic abuse.

Jason does not know where he is. No, that is a lie. There is a slight pressure in his arm. Something is beeping. He’s brought his mom to the clinic enough to know what kind of room he’s in.

When the fog clears, the first things he notices are these: blinding light, the new machines, that sharp, clean smell of ammonia and hand sanitizer. There is a poster with different faces to his left. _ What’s your pain level? _Tolerable. Annoying. Intense. 

That’s when he notices the throbbing in his head. Jason groans and squeezes his eyes shut, pressing himself into the bed to get away from that garish, painful light. _ Fuck. _ It’s number seven or eight for sure. Very Intense to Utterly Horrible. 

God. He should have died on the side of the road, curled up on the sidewalk—

The night storms back into him. His eyes fly back open and gasps for air, scrambling to rearrange the memories. North Warren Street. Alcohol. Grant. Dawn. The sidewalk. Now here he is, sitting in an upright hospital bed, in a _ nice _ hospital bed, above shiny floors and next to bright, expansive windows. He must have thrown up during the night, because there’s a basin next to him that looks shiny, as if recently washed. Someone brought him here. A hospital.

“Shit!” he hisses, and tries to pull away, but the pressure in his arm pulls back. He looks down. There’s an IV in his arm. A _ needle _. 

The blood rushes from his face and he fights to breathe. It looks just like the ones his mom leaves scattered over the floors and on the windowsills, and who knows what they put in there, maybe heroin or cocaine or amphetamines... 

A _ needle _. 

A _ needle _. 

A _ needle _. 

Some nurse walks in on him as he’s struggling to yank it out. “Stop!” she yells, grabbing his wrists to keep his fingers from wrapping around the foreign device and pulling. “You can’t just take it out like that!”

“Get it out of me!” he chokes, pushing at her torso. “Get. It. _ Out! _”

“Oh my god—Maria, help!” 

Another pair of hands wraps around his other arm. Jason didn’t even see the other nurse come in. He doesn’t even care. He just wants that thing _ gone _. 

“It’s alright,” the second nurse says. She presses him back gently, until his back rests against the cushion of the bed. The lights are flashing in his vision and he can’t fight it anymore. “We’ll take it out. But you need to be _ still _.” 

_ Still _. He can do that. The pain in his head is coming back. 

Slowly, the nurses release him. A moment passes, and then the pressure in his arm disappears. He looks down. A bead of blood has appeared on his inner arm, widening and widening until it drips down his forearm, hot and thick. The first nurse wipes it away. 

“There,” she said. “Better?”

“What—what was that?” 

“Just saline,” she replies, and gives him a look. “You were seriously dehydrated. Alcohol poisoning.”

_ Fuck _. So it’s worse than a hangover, then. 

Jason leans back until he is resting on the bed. Down the hallway, a disembodied voice is making an announcement about something something Dr. Thompkins. 

_ You don’t have health insurance _ , a little voice says to him. _ Get the fuck out of here _. 

“What’s the point?” he mutters. He probably racked up a ten thousand dollar bill already. They should just let him die. 

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” 

The nurse clicks her tongue. “You want me to call in your friends? They’ve been real worried about you.” 

“Friends?” 

“Those kids that dropped you off. Want me to call them in?”

It all comes back to him now. The party. _ Dawn. _ The sidewalk. The car. Someone buckled him in and held him upright as they drove. Not Grant. It was someone kind. Someone blue.

His confusion must be written on his face, because the nurse stands and smiles kindly. “I’ll call them in,” she says. “They can help you with your discharge papers.”

“You’re not gonna give me a talk about drinking?”

The nurse laughs. “I’d say you learned your lesson, huh? Wait right there.”

Jason opens his mouth to say something else, but she is already gone. Alright then. Sighing, he throws an arm over his face to block out the light. What is he going to tell the hospital? _ Sorry, but you know that bill you gave me? I can’t pay it. So sorry! _ Hell. Forget the hospital. What is he going to tell his mom? _ I racked up ten grand in medical bills because I wanted to have sex with a girl, but I couldn’t, because I’m gay. _

His eyes fly open. _ His mom _. Oh fuck. She’s all alone in their apartment. She’s probably worried sick, popping pills to keep from freaking out—

“Oh. You’re awake.” 

Jason looks over to the door, and his breath catches in his throat. No fucking way. It couldn’t be—but it had to—there was no other option—

Dick Grayson. Dick Fucking Grayson, pretty boy, rich kid, Rainbow Youth, picked him off the street and brought him to the hospital. 

“Christ, man,” Dick says. “Are you okay?”

It takes Jason a moment to collect himself. Dick Grayson, with those beautiful blue eyes, that dark, shiny hair, was _ nice _ to him. He remembered his name. He was there when no one else was, not even Grant. _ God _. He probably pictures himself as some sort of white knight, helping those poor, broken boys who think that they’re not gay...

“Fuck you,” Jason mutters. He can’t help himself. 

It’s a small pleasure, seeing Dick so taken aback. “Excuse me?” he asks. 

“Fuck. You. You fucking brought me to _ the hospital? _”

“Is that a problem?”

Jason tries to stand up, groans, then falls back against the bed. “I can’t afford this, you prick,” he mumbles.

“Oh.” Something between surprise and pity settles over Dick’s face. “Don’t worry about that. My dad, uh, owns this place. We’ll get it all sorted out.”

Right. His dad. Bruce Wayne.

“I don’t want your help. Or your money.”

“Well, too bad. You’re gonna take it.” 

“Why?” Despite the pounding in his head, Jason forced himself to stare into Dick’s face. “I don’t even know you, man. We’ve talked _ once. _”

“And? Should I have just left you there?”

Jason doesn’t say anything.

“Look,” Dick sighs, pulling a bottle of water of his bag, “I didn’t even know it was you. My friend Mal called me about a drunk kid leaving this party.”

He scoffs. “Because you just _ love _saving people, right?” 

“No. Because my apartment’s in the area. Water?”

Jason considers not taking it. He _ shouldn’t _take it. The bottle’s just another thing he’d have to pay back, and he owed enough already. But the more he looked at it, the stickier his mouth felt, the drier his tongue became. God damn it.

He takes the water and pries of the top, gulping it down until he needs to breathe. “Thanks,” he mutters. “I, uh, needed that.”

“I bet. My first hangover, I think I drank about a gallon.” 

“It’s not my first hangover,” says Jason, thinking, _ and it won’t be my last _. 

Dick laughs, and something twists in Jason’s stomach. He looks like he’s about to say something else when a woman in a lab coat comes in, carrying a clipboard. Jason’s not so hungover that he doesn’t recognize a doctor when he sees one. 

“Jason?” the doctor asks. “How are you feeling?”

Jason looks at Dick, who mouths, _ Catch you outside _. He’s gone in an instant. 

The doctor tries again. “Mr. Todd?”

“I feel like shit.”

“Well, that’s perfectly normal,” she replies, smiling as she removes the stethoscope from her neck. “I’m going to check your heart rate, alright?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to have to put this on your skin. Is that okay?”

He thinks about Dawn.

He feels sick. 

He thinks about something else. 

“Yeah,” he says, tugging down the front of his collar to expose the top part of his chest. “Go for it.”

She places the head of the stethoscope on his skin and listens. Then she places it on his back and asks him to breathe in. Breathe out. She checks his eyes, his blood pressure, and tells him that his blood pressure is a little high, but not to worry too much, because it’s to be expected after the last night’s _ activities _. 

“Looks like you’re good to go,” she says, recording the numbers on the clipboard. “We’ll have some things for you to sign at the front desk.”

“Cool,” Jason says. He itches to get out.

The doctor clicks her pen and pulls a sheet of paper from the clipboard. Handing it to Jason, she says, “Come back if you experience any of the symptoms listed here.”

He looks over the list. _ Confusion, hypothermia, abnormal breathing, hypoglycemia _. Blah blah blah. 

“Here’s a recovery plan,” she says, handing him another paper. “I suggest you get some food in you as soon as possible. Increased blood sugar should help with your veisalgia.”

“Right.” 

“And Jason?”

He shifts his posture to look at the doctor as she gives him—surprise, surprise—more papers. This one is different than the others, lighter. The top of the page reads: **Rethinking Drinking: Alcoholism and your health.** And the next page is even worse: **Domestic abuse: there is help for you. **

“Please read these,” she says, and his cheeks begin to burn. “There are resources for you, if you need them. We’re here to help.”

_ Yeah, right _.

“I’ll check it out,” Jason lies. “Are we good?”

“Yes. We’re good.” 

He is out of the room before she can give him any more stupid advice. His body aches as he moves, but it’s a welcome alternative to spending one more minute on that bed as he’s passed from helper to helper like a broken toy. 

Dick is waiting for him at the front desk. “I’ve got your stuff,” he says, dropping Jason’s phone and wallet on the counter. “Sorry. I had to go through it to find your ID.” 

So he saw how empty it was. Great. Jason takes it and slips it into his pocket without saying anything. “What do I gotta sign to get out of here?” he mumbles. 

“Just these,” the attendant says, placing some document before him. It’s full of legal crap. Patient name (Jason Peter Todd). Sex (Male). Date of Birth (9/16/97). He starts to shield the paper from Dick’s view as he writes his address, then remembers that he’s being stupid, since Dick has seen his ID and everything. _ God _ . He must have such a hero complex right now. _ Look at me, saving this poor, confused queer from the East End _…

“And we’ve talked about the bill,” Dick says. 

The attendant nods. “Yes. No need to fill out that last section.” 

“Right.” Jason crosses out what he had started writing and hands the paper back over.

She gives it a skim, staples something to it, and smiles at him. “You’re good to go, Mr. Todd. Mr. Grayson, we’ll be in touch.” 

“Sounds good,” Dick replies, grabbing Jason’s arm and pulling him toward the door. 

Jason swats him away. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking you home.”

_ Jesus Christ _. “Look,” Jason says, rubbing his race to ease some of the pressure in his skull, “Thanks, but no thanks. I owe you enough.”

“Sorry,” Dick replies, obviously not sorry. “But I kinda put myself down as your ride home.”

_ “You what?” _

Laughing, Dick holds up his hands and gives him a look: _ my bad, except not really _. “I mean, we can go back and change it. But they’re not going to let you leave without a ride, you know.” 

Jason sighs. Fuck it. If Dick wants to be a hero so goddamn badly, he might as well get the whole goddamn experience. 

“Alright,” he says. It takes a lot not to sound like a petulant child. “Let’s go, then.”

When Dick starts walking—with perfect posture, naturally—Jason follows, wishing he had his hood or some sunglasses to block the light pouring into his eyes. It’s no brighter than usual, which in Gotham is hardly very bright, but today the brightness hurts. At least the morning breeze is soft and cool on his face, like that rush of air when he opens a freezer. It feels good, running through his hair.

“Hop in,” Dick says, pointing his keys at a row of cars. Jason expects the sports convertible to be the one that beeps, but the car that unlocks is the one next to it, a normal-looking hatchback.

“You’re kidding,” he says, when Dick gets behind the wheel.

“What?”

“I don’t know. I just thought—”

“That I’d have a nicer car?” Dick’s eyes sparkle. “Do I look like a flashy guy?”

Jason knows he’s not supposed to look at guys, but he does anyway. A floral, short-sleeved button up—a little rumpled, but fashionably—a V-neck tee shirt, rolled chinos, high tops. He looks like he stepped out of an ad for Zumiez.

“Yeah,” Jason says. “A little.”

“Good. Hop in.”

The car smells of air freshener and a little bit of coffee, like someone spilled Starbucks on the floor and never cleaned it up all the way. Sure enough, there’s a splash of brown on the light gray carpets beneath his feet. 

“Don’t drink and drive,” Dick explains, when he sees Jason looking. 

“Very funny.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.” 

Dick turns the key in the ignition and the car hums to life. Ah. A hybrid. Jason feels a smugness well up in his chest, as if he had proven something to himself. Of course it wasn’t a _ normal _ hatchback. 

“So,” Dick begins, “you hungry?”

_ Yes. _

“No.”

“Well I’m starving. Hospital cafeterias are shit. Mind if we make a quick stop?”

Jason shakes his head and sinks down in the seat until he’s curved like an S. He wants to go home. He wants Dick to push him out of the car and drive off, leaving him in the dirt where he belongs. At least then he’d look as roughed up as he feels.

His mom must be worried about him. Checking his phone, Jason looks for an anguished text, something he can use to force Dick to hurry things up. _ I’m sorry _ , he wants to say, _ but my mom is freaking out. See? I need to go home right now _.

But there’s nothing. Not even a text from Grant. Of course. They’re probably sleeping off whatever shit they had last night.

Jason sighs and looks at Dick, studies the way his hair ruffles in the current of the heater. For the first time, he notices the dark circles under his eyes, how he blinks quickly to drive off sleep. 

_ Oh my god _. Why hadn’t it occurred to him that—of course that’s what happened—he almost died—

Fuck. He’s such a goddamn _ ingrate. _

“You stayed at the hospital?” Jason blurts out.

Dick chuckles uncomfortably. “Kinda.” 

“Shit.” Jason closes his eyes. “Fuck. I’m such an asshole. I’m so sorry.”

“What do you mean?”

“I could have _ died _ and you _ saved me _ and I didn’t even—I’m sitting here thinking you’re a total jerk because you have money, and I can’t afford to owe anyone anything else, and you know too much about me already—and I didn’t even _ thank you _. Thank you.” 

He says all of this very fast. When it’s over, he realizes he is out of breath.

Dick looks caught between shock and consternation. If he weren’t driving, he probably would be staring. “Okay,” he says. “That’s a lot.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I promise. You don’t need to worry about that.” 

Jason grits his teeth. “But I _ do _.”

“Explain.”

“Because that’s how it works, okay?” Jason says. “In my...in the real world.”

If Dick is insulted, he doesn’t show it on his face. He simply shrugs and brushes a loose strand of hair out of his eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on the road. “Alright. You owe me. Happy?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Really. I mean it.”

Dick laughs. “I know. And I’m gonna call in my first favor now. We’re stopping for breakfast.”

_ That’s not what I meant _ , Jason thinks, but says nothing. Something tells him that arguing would be pointless. And he _ is _hungry, he realizes, more hungry than he’d care to admit to himself. There’s a menacing emptiness in him, a vacancy that leaves him slightly nauseous. 

“Fine,” he says, and Dick smiles.

They stop at a small place off of the boulevard, some kitschy diner with tile floors and red plastic booths. Dick must be some type of regular here, because the waitress waves at him and says something along the lines of “long time no see.” 

“You’ve got to try the fries,” Dick says, sliding into one of the booths. Jason joins him, trying not to look desperate for food. “They’re to die for.”

“It’s like, ten in the morning.”

“So? It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Dick says, then laughs. “Sorry. That was insensitive.”

“I’m not an alcoholic.”

“I never said that.”

“I know.”

“Look,” Dick says. “We all make mistakes.” 

The way he says it makes Jason wonder if he’s talking about something else. He shifts uncomfortably, and tries to focus on the menu. Eggs. Bacon. Pancakes. Burgers. Milkshakes. He doesn’t look at the way Dick bites his lip in concentration, doesn’t look at the way the tendons in his forearms flex when he rests his head on his palm. He doesn’t look at these things, because he is afraid they might make him feel something he’s not supposed to feel.

When the waitress comes back, he orders a chili dog and a milkshake, and asks for a separate check. Thankfully, Dick doesn’t stop him. Maybe he’s finally catching on to the fact that Jason isn’t a fucking charity case. 

“What happened to ‘ten o’clock in the morning’?” Dick asks when the waitress leaves. He dumps a packed of sugar in his coffee and stirs, leaving the spoon in as he takes a sip.

“I’m hungover.”

“That’s fair. Coffee?”

“No thanks. I’m fine.”

Dick laughs. “Wow.”

“Wow what?”

“I’m just trying to be nice. No need to be so defensive.”

“I’m not defensive.”

“Sure.” 

“I’m _ not _.” 

Dick shrugs and takes another sip of his coffee, leaning back in the booth. “How’s your research project going?” he asks. 

Jason stares dumbly. 

“You know. That project. You were talking about it at the Rainbow Center.”

_ Oh, fuck. _“Right,” he chuckles awkwardly. “I, uh, finished it.”

“Figured. What were you researching, anyway?”

Jason can’t tell if it’s an honest question, or if Dick is trying to catch him in a lie. From the genuine look in the other boy’s eyes, he wants to think it’s the former, but he can’t be sure. Isn’t that something queer people do? Tangle the straight things?

“Support groups,” he says, “for...you know—”

“For us freaky homos.”

“I never said that.”

Dick smirks. “I know.”

Jason is about to say something else but shuts up as he sees the waitress approaching with his food. He thanks her and starts scarfing it down. It’s so rich and greasy and perfect and _ exactly _what he needs. Almost instantly he feels better, more alive. But he keeps eating. Maybe his urgency will tell Dick all he needs to know. 

It doesn’t.

“I hope we didn’t scare you away, last week,” Dick says. He holds a fry like an extra finger, wagging it around in the air. 

“We?”

“You know. Roy. Stef. Me. You remember them? Roy and Stef?”

Jason licks the last bit of chili off his fingers. “Yeah. And you didn’t scare me off.”

“Well, I was being an ass anyway. I’m sorry.”

_ Really? _He’s apologizing? Jason almost rolls his eyes. Mr. Perfect just can’t contain his goodwill, can he? It just slips right through the cracks.

Aaaaannnd here he is being bitter again. God. What is wrong with him? 

“It’s okay,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry for swearing at you. At the hospital, I mean.”

“No biggie. I’m I’m used to it.” 

That doesn’t seem right to Jason. “From straight people, you mean?” 

Dick gives him a _ meh _smile. “Sure. You could say that.” 

Jason wants to ask him why he’s holding back, why he’s so obviously hiding something about his relationship to the world. But that would make him look too interested, and straight people aren’t supposed to be interested in queer people, unless they’re making fun of them. Tommy never calls him a fag out of kindness. 

“Anyway,” Dick continues, “I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I could use your help.”

He doesn’t like where this is going. “Explain.”

“We’re trying to make our building handicap-accessible, and we could use someone who understands construction, right?”

“...Right.”

“So…?” Dick looks at him and smiles, showing off all of his perfect white teeth.

“So you want me to help,” Jason finishes. “How’d you know I work in construction?”

“I might have seen something in your wallet when I was looking for your ID.”

“Right.” He lets out an exasperated laugh. “You don’t want me. I just move things around. Wood and tools and stuff.”

Dick shrugs and tosses a fry in his mouth. “The more the merrier. We’ll take all the help we can get.”

Sighing, Jason runs his hands through his hair. “Fine,” he says, after a moment. “But I can’t skip school or anything.” 

“Next Saturday work for you?” 

“I have work.”

“Sunday, then?”

“Fine.”

“Cool. I’ll text you the details.” 

“You have my number?”

A sheepish look crosses Dick’s face. “I might have copied it from the discharge papers. Just in case.” 

Jason can’t stop himself from smiling. “Stalker.” 

“Anyway,” Dick says, clearing his throat. “Next Sunday. It’s a date.”

Suddenly Jason sees himself in other people’s eyes. He’s with Dick Grayson, out-and-proud homo. He’s sitting with Dick Grayson, out-and-proud homo, at a diner, eating food, talking about Rainbow Youth. _ Fuck _ . It _ is _ practically a fucking _ date _. 

He stands and drops his silverware on the table. “I... I forgot about my mom,” he lies, patting his pockets for his wallet. “Shit. I need to get home. Right now.”

Dick stands too. “I’ll—”

“No,” Jason snaps. “You’ve done enough, okay? I’ll, uh, take a taxi. It’s okay.” 

“Right.” The other boy looks somewhat disappointed, and Jason has to remind himself why he can’t care. “I’ll see you next week, then.”

Jason gives him a quiet “yeah” and slips over to the cash register, itching to get out of the diner as soon as possible. _ Faster, faster, faster _, he thinks, watching the waitress run his card. He drops a few dollars in the tip jar. Maybe that will speed things up. 

“You have a good day now,” she says, winking as she hands him his card.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. He can feel Dick’s eyes on the back of his neck as he walks out of the diner and into the cool morning air. 

_ Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around _.

He needs to go home and sleep. That’s what he needs to do. Sleep, sleep, sleep and dream about nothing. Maybe it will help him forget Dick, forget Dawn, forget last night.

Because he can’t remember. If he remembers, he’ll lose himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this quickly because I had to go to class. I might edit it a little later? We'll see.


	5. Briggs Avenue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized this past week that Thomas Elliot also goes by Tommy. I did not intend for this Tommy to be _that_ Tommy, but feel free to interpret it that way if it suits your fancy. #deathoftheauthor
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include: domestic abuse, discussions of non-consensual sex, victim-blaming.  
(Just so we're clear: assault is _never_ excusable, and the victim is _never_ at fault.)

Jason gets to the apartment complex just as his phone starts vibrating in his pocket. But it’s not his mom. It’s Grant. He accepts the call, knowing exactly what his friend is going to say.

“Fuck,” Grant says into the reciever. “Fuck. Are you alive?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, man. I was totally sloshed.” 

Jason fumbles with his keys to the building. “Yeah. Yeah. I know.” 

“Did you get a ride home?”

“Something like that.” 

“Oh.” The tension leaves Grant’s voice. Jason can picture him settling into his own body, slouching in his chair until his chin is level with his shoulders. “Did you hook up with Elise?” 

Something in him tightens then releases. Jason’s standing in front of his apartment now, number 306. He can hear the television playing on the other side of the door. 

“Holy shit,” Grant says. “You _ did _.”

That’s what he gets for not answering right away. “Look,” Jason replies, wielding his keys like a weapon, “I feel like shit. I’ll text you later.”

“Give me all the details.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

The call drops. Jason is alone with his reflection in the blank screen, and he doesn’t really like what he sees. He looks _ drained _. His eyes are gaunt; his cheek still tinged with blue from Tommy’s fist. And his hair is a right mess, sticking up this way, that way, caressing his ears like thin blades of grass.

He looks like his mother’s son.

When he steps inside, he instinctively looks toward the living room carpet, just to make sure his mom isn’t limp across the rug. But he sees only books and letters, a toppled can of ginger ale. The couch is empty, though it has only recently become so, judging by frosty exterior of the can of beer on the coffee table. On the TV, some commentator talks about millenials and their overdependence on technology. 

Then it hits him. That gasoline smell. _ Fuck _.

The toilet flushes. Tommy steps out from the bathroom and walks back to the couch, not even giving him the decency of a glance. “Where the hell were you?” he asks, dumping the can of beer down his throat.

“Where’s my mom?”

“I asked you a question, retard,” Tommy snaps, crushing the can in his fist. He drops it on the ground next to the ginger ale. “Where the fuck were _ you _? Your mom’s been crying all night.”

Jason doesn’t like the way he says _ all night _ , and he doesn’t like the idea of his mom crying. His stomach and head begin to seesaw, back and forth and up and down. _ Fuck, not now _. The last thing he wants is for Tommy to see him vomiting.

Blinking hard, he says, “I missed the last bus back. Spent the night at a friend’s house. Not you actually care, or anything.”

“Oh but I do care,” Tommy says. “Your mom’s my best customer. We’re practically family.”

“Fuck off. Where’s my mom?”

Tommy laughs. “Aww. The little boy is finally growing a pair. Go get me a beer.”

“No,” Jason snaps. He’s turning to go look for his mom when he feels a meaty hand wrap around his wrist.

“Why not?” Tommy hisses, squeezing. Jason grunts in pain, but doesn’t move. “Think it’s bad for me, huh? I can smell the booze all over you, kid. You’re no better than me.”

Jason’s face boils. “Let go of me, Tommy,” he says coolly, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of fear. And it’s not like he’s afraid, anyway. He’s more..._ tired. _Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. He just wants to find his mom and crawl into bed. 

The man makes a big show of releasing his grip, holding his hands up like a man under arrest. “Now honey,” he says, his voice disgustingly sweet, “I’m just playing. Go be a good little girl and get Daddy a beer, okay?”

_ Jesus Christ. _ Briefly Jason wonders if he should just surrender, give into what Tommy wants before he gets another burn or cut or black eye. It would be the smart thing to do. But then again, that solution is only temporary. No, worse: it would be another link in the chain that binds them to Tommy. Submit now, and the man will expect him to submit again and again and again, until god-knows-what. The smart thing to do would be to get him out of the apartment, out of their lives, forever. 

“Get it yourself, you lazy piece of shit,” Jason snarls, flipping him off. 

“What the fuck did you say?”

“I said, bite me, jackass.”

Tommy flies to his feet and looms over Jason, his dark eyes drilling holes into his face. Jason doesn’t look away, not even when Tommy grabs him by the collar and pushes him against the wall. “You’d like that, huh?” the man hisses. “Wouldn’t you, faggot?”

Jason grins. _ Hurt me _ , he thinks. _ Come on. Do it. _

He does. Tommy slams him against the wall, knocking his head into the hard plaster. Lights flash in Jason’s vision. A new pain overtakes the old, a sharper, more intense pain, like a thousand needles burying themselves inside his skull. 

“I asked you a question,” Tommy says. His breath is hot and foul, laced with the scent of beer and cigarettes.

“Do you think I’m afraid of you?” Jason asks. “‘Cause if you do, you’re stupider than I thought.”

Tommy growls as he throws a punch. It hits Jason in the gut. He doubles over, gasping. When he can breathe again, he says, “Does hitting me make you feel like a real man?”

It must, because Tommy starts hitting him again. It doesn’t really hurt, because Jason’s too tired to hurt, because he’s used to it. Grant hits him all the time, even if it isn’t as hard or as mean. Guys used to throw him around all the time when he was playing football. And besides, even if it did hurt, it will be worth it, once his mom sees what Tommy did to him.

“You little shit,” Tommy hisses, when Jason is sitting dumbly at his feet. “Your momma would be better off without you.”

_ Pot meet kettle _.

Jason pushes his hair out of his face and gives him his brightest smile. That seems to do the trick. Tommy snarls in disgust, grabs his jacket from the floor, and stomps out, shouting, “Fucking _ disease! _”

He slams the door behind him.

A sigh of relief escapes Jason’s lips. He pushes himself to his feet and gently prods at his face. His jaw is tender, but at least it wasn’t his eye this time. 

The apartment is warm. Judging from the strained whirring of the radiator, the heat’s been on a while. Even as it makes the apartment feel more alive, it also makes everything smell older, like dust and mothballs and old paint. Jason walks over to the thermostat and shuts it off. But he leaves the windows closed. Fresh air, his ass. The air in East End tastes like chemicals and oil, and smells the same. 

Taking a deep breath, he walks toward his mom’s bedroom. “Mom?” he asks softly, pushing open the door. “Are you awake?”

“Jason?” she replies. Suddenly she sits up, wild-eyed. “Jason!”

When she hugs him, he lets himself melt into her arms. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, holding her tightly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Her fingers graze his face like she’s afraid to touch him. “What happened?”

“Someone hit me,” he says, hoping she’ll ask, _ who? _

“Oh.” His mom frowns. “Are you fighting people? Is that what you were doing last night?”

Jason thinks about telling her the truth, about the party and the hospital and Dick. He wants her to hold him and stroke his hair while he lets go of all that’s been building up. _ I don’t know what I am, Mom. I don’t know what I am and I can’t stop the things that are happening to me _. 

But he doesn’t say any of that. He lets her hold him, wanting to fold into himself and disappear.

After a moment, his mom pulls away. “Have you been drinking?” she asks.

“Only a little,” he says, after some hesitation. 

She pulls away and smacks the back of his head. “Jason! You know better than that!”

_ Do I? _he thinks bitterly. 

“I’m sorry.”

“God damn it. Stop saying you’re sorry!”

“Mom—”

She shakes her head and sits down on her mattress, rubbing her eyes. “Jason,” she says. “I don’t want you to—you’re better than this. Are you trying to hurt me?”

His face burns. “No, Mom.”

Ignoring him, she continues. “Drinking, fighting—”

“I wasn’t fighting.”

“—you weren’t with girls, were you? We talked about this, Jason. You’re going to end up like me.”

Something in him breaks. “I’m...I’m going to go do my homework,” he mutters. Before he leaves, he kisses her on the forehead, brushing a strand of her dark hair out of her eyes. She remains motionless, eyes locked on the wall across from her. “By the way,” he adds. “Tommy… Tommy was the one who hit me. I thought you would want to know that.”

His mom looks at him but says nothing. She seems to be processing something behind her eyes, but it’s too dull to be the maternal rage he expected. It’s more like..._ disbelief. _ Maybe he should try again when she’s more sober. 

Jason closes the door behind him and heads into his room. His bedroom is even smaller than his mother’s, barely big enough to hold a bed and a dresser. But he’s grateful that they can afford a second bedroom, that he can take this little space and make it his. The books he likes are in a pile resembling a night stand; the rest are stacked beneath his bed. He’s put up fairy lights and posters of the USWNT. There’s even a framed photo of his family, before all the shit, when it was just him and his parents and his dog. Maybe they weren’t happy, but at least they still had some innocence.

Sighing, Jason collapses on his bed and stares at the ceiling. His face feels heavy and packed; his stomach tightens with every breath. It’s not the hardest Tommy has ever hit him, and at least he didn’t leave any burns this time. The old one is still scabbed and itching. 

In his pocket, his phone buzzes. It’s from an unknown number. 

_ Hey Jason it’s Dick. Let me know if you got home okay! :p _

He doesn’t know if he should smile or roll his eyes. On the one hand, it’s nice that Dick would care enough to check up on him, no matter how annoying it may seem. But on the other...it’s fucking annoying. How old does he think Jason is?

_ I’m back, _ he writes. _ Don’t worry about me _.

_ Good to know! Drink water, buddy _.

Jason considers texting him some mundane response—a thumbs-up or _ k _or whatever—but he knows that will just prolong the conversation. Instead he deletes the messages from his phone. He has no need to save them. 

Just as he’s about to put his phone away, it buzzes twice in quick succession. This time it’s Grant. 

_ Rosie says she saw u talking with a pink chick. Explain _??

And then below that: _ ??? Hello??? _

Jason bites his lip, his fingers hovering over the keys as he thinks about what he should say. If something were wrong, Grant would agree, right? Maybe this can be his way of checking himself. Grant’s his friend. He’ll understand.

Grant writes again. _ Rosie says she was hot. Is that true? _

He hesitates for a moment before writing, _ yeah _. 

His phone buzzes: _ Grant loved “yeah.” _

Fuck. Jason squeezes his eyes shut and chews on the inside of his cheek. He _ has _to say something. No backing down know.

_ Tell me if I’m being weird but... _

_ I got really drunk _ . _ Kinda passed out. _

_ When I woke up she was…..you know….. _

He starts to write _ I don’t know if I wanted it so I kicked her off _, then quickly deletes it. Grant is already writing him back, anyway. The three gray dots are bouncing across the bottom of his phone, those little heralds of words.

_ Fuck that’s weird _ , Grant says, and Jason breathes a sigh of relief. Then the next text comes. _ Are you sure you remember everything right? _

_ Idk. _

_ Then maybe it wasn’t like that, you know??? I mean, you said she was hot. _

_ I guess. _

_ And maybe you feel bad because of Isabel??? _

Jason stares at his phone. _ Fuck _. Grant is right; if it weren’t for Isabel, he wouldn’t have been feeling like shit, wouldn’t have felt like he needed to prove something, wouldn’t have gone to the party in the first place. Yeah, he’s feeling bad and he was being stupid. No need to blame it on Dawn. 

_ Lmao forget it, _ he wrote back. _ U feeling better yet? _

He lets Grant rant about whatever shit he put in his system, all the while grabbing his backpack and sorting his homework into little piles on his bed. Calculus he does first, simply because he only has a few problems left, and they’re all review, anyway. Then it’s Economics (a “Saving and Investing” worksheet), Chemistry (equilibrium equations), and finally Literature. There’s only a few weeks left until the A.P. exam, so they’ve been doing a lot of review and a lot of analysis. Jason settles against his pillow and starts reading a ratty paperback copy of _ A Separate Peace _, underlining that seem to have greater meaning. Finny’s clothes. Blitzball. The tree, the tree, the tree. 

It’s all very homoerotic, the book. Gene might be in love with Finny. For a paragraph he talks about Finny’s ass; he wears Finny’s clothes; he touches Finny in a way that men aren’t supposed to touch other men. If the author didn’t want them to be gay, he could have done a better job. 

Or, Jason realizes, that’s just how men were back in the 40s. They were nicer to each other; softer. Maybe he’s not gay. Maybe he’s an old soul.

_ Fuck _. Why does everything have to come back to queers? It’s like he has a one-track mind, and not the normal type. 

“Jason?”

He didn’t hear his mom come in. She stands in the doorway, wrapped in her bathrobe, her long brown hair falling in waves around her shoulders. For a moment he can see the woman she used to be, the woman who would take him to the park and let him blow bubbles on the balcony. Though her eyes are puffy from crying, her skin looks clear and flushed, and when she’s wearing thick clothing he can’t tell how thin she is.

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“Did Tommy really hit you?”

He nods slowly. 

“Oh.” His mom scratches at the inside of her arm. “Why did he do that?”

For a moment he wonders if he should keep going. She already looks sicker than she did moments before. Her light is fading. 

_ No. This is why you let him hit you. Keep going. _

“I didn’t do something he wanted me to do,” Jason says. “So he hit me.”

“Oh honey,” she says, voice breaking. Her lower lip trembles as she steps forward and wraps her arms around him. “I’m so sorry. Oh god. This—this isn’t supposed to happen.”

“It’s alright, Mom. Don’t cry,” he says, but all of a sudden his vision blurs and his eyes feel full and wet. It’s all too much. He can’t help it.

“No, no, no,” she babbles. “I told him—I _ told him—_I don’t want him hurting you. If your father finds out—”

“Wait.” He pulls away from her and stares. The weight of her words slowly pushes him down into the mattress. “You told him that?”

She smiles sadly. “Of course, Jase.”

“So…” Jason chews on the inside of his cheek. “You knew. You knew he likes to hit me.”

“I’ll talk to him again, honey,” his mom says. “I promise. Just please don't provoke him. You know how he gets.”

He flies to his feet, anger biting at his tongue. “Mom, he’s a bad man,” he says, trying not to growl. _ She’s sick _ , he reminds himself. _ Don’t take it out on her _.

“People said that about your father too.”

“You mean the guy who’s in prison?” Jason yells. “The asshole who used to yell so loud I hid under the kitchen table? Yeah, he’s a _ real _role-model.”

“God damn it. Don’t take that tone with me.”

Jason stares at her for a moment, his heart pounding against the cage of his chest. Then he sighs. “Look,” he says, “you’re not seeing straight. Maybe if you got some help—”

There’s a sharp crack, and pain spreads across the left side of his face. Only when he sees her open palm does Jason realize that his mom _ slapped _him. She seems just as shocked as he is, staring at her trembling hand like she’s never seen it before. Neither of them speak. Then she puts her hand down and starts crying again. 

“Don’t end up like me,” she whispers, backing out. “Okay, Jasey?”

Jason doesn’t say anything. He can only watch as she sniffs and shuffles out, letting the door trail her heels. On the other side of the wall, he can hear her opening the bathroom cupboard, can picture her unscrewing a bottle of xanax and dumping the pills down her throat. 

_ Fuck _. His face stings. He looks down at his bed, at the open book lying face-down in front of his pillow. The yellowed pages have creased in the corner; part of the cover has wrinkled. Oh well.

He sits back down on his bed and tries to read again, but he can’t make sense of the words. So he closes his book and messes around on his phone, scrolling through old pictures until, on a whim, he opens his email and refreshes his accounts. 

His heart stops.

There’s a new message from the College of New Jersey. _ Your admission status has been updated. Log into your account to view. _

How could he have forgotten about schools? It was spring, and in spring colleges start sending out letters. A glimmer of hope builds in the back of his mind. This is his ticket out, right? One word, fifteen letters, and he can rebuild himself from the ground up. 

“Shit,” he breathes. All thoughts about the book, about the party and Dawn and Grant and Dick and Tommy and his mom, they dissipate into nothing. Heart thumping in his mouth, he opens up the link and enters his login information (JPTodd; janea1797) and waits.

_Dear Jason,_   
_ Congratulations! The committee has reviewed your application and we are happy to offer you admission to the class of 2020… _

Breathless, he keeps reading. _ If you applied for financial aid… Open the Student Account Center… Payment due by July 15th… _

Right. The reality of it comes crashing back into him as he looks at the billing statement. Six thousand dollars. And that’s only for half the year. Not to mention housing and food and books and supplies… That number would increase by four thousand _ at least _if he was lucky. Then he’d half to pay it again. 

_ No, no, no _ , he told himself. _ You should be happy. _

It was like being with Dick all over again. He just couldn’t be grateful. Even if the school doesn’t give him more money, other scholarships might. Other schools might. There are still four of his applications floating out in the ether. Princeton is a long shot, but they give good financial aid. So does Gotham University. And if he got into GU, he’d be able to live at home. He could take care of his mom, be here if—when—his dad gets out of prison. 

_ Don’t end up like me _.

Jason throws his phone to the side so he can bury his head in his hands. Right. GU is out of the question, then. But maybe he still had a chance at Princeton. He has an average of 94.8. He’s played sports all four years of high school. He has a job and has even written articles for the school newspaper. He’s not like his mom, or his dad, or Tommy. And Princeton has to know that. It has to.

Someone texts him. It’s Grant again. Jason thinks about opening the message and responding, but instead lets his phone fall from his hands. There’s still so much work to be done. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I have to write my own shit for school, chapter updates will be bi-weekly (once every two weeks) from now on. In the mean time, feel free to read my other Jaybird fic, [Chosen Son](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20332048/chapters/48208447). 
> 
> Also: constructive comments (and suggestions) are very welcome! Write away!


	6. Authority Construction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Human brain: Wait until morning to post the chapter, you are on the West Coast and everyone else is asleep right now.  
Monkey brain: *incoherent screeching*
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: mild violence, (brief) underage drinking, internalized queerphobia

“So prom’s coming up,” Grant says from over his shoulder, and Jason sighs.

He’d done such a good job avoiding Grant, slinking through the crowded school hallways like a cat, rushing from class to class before his friend could grab his arm and start talking about girls, parties, bruises. And now he’s stuck at his locker, staring at stacks of books while Grant looms behind him. 

_ Please don’t say anything about the party, _ he thinks. _ Or about Dawn_.

Grant continues, oblivious. “You thinking about asking anyone?”

“I don’t know,” Jason mutters, slamming his locker shut. “I don’t think I’m gonna go.”

“What? It’s senior prom! We’d miss you, man.”

“We?”

He gestures around even though no one is there. “You know. Me. Bart. Virgil. Richie. The guys. Take your pick.”

“I pick Virgil.”

“Very funny. But he’s going with Daisy Watkins, so you’re out of luck.”

Jason shoves his books in his backpack and throws the bag over his shoulder. “Look,” he says, “I’m just not interested.”

“In going? Or in going alone?”

“Take your pick.”

Grant rolls his eyes. “Someone’s cranky. You on your period, Todd?”

_ Jesus Christ_. “Where’d your humor come from? The nineties?” Jason asks, starting down the hall. Grant hurries after him, his soccer cleats clacking against the tile floor. Did he skip class to change early? Probably. He has sixth period pre-calc, and doesn’t mind missing it to dick around the locker room. _ Not like he needs an education anyway, _ Jason thinks bitterly. Daddy Wilson can pay to get him into anywhere.

“Is this about Isabel?” Grant asks once they’re outside. At least he has the decency to do it when no one else is around. The quad is nothing more than patches of grass and concrete, with the occasional bench and lamppost.

“No,” Jason says.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly Grant’s hand is on his shoulder, spinning him around. “Hey man,” he says. “Is something wrong? You’ve been avoiding me. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “So I didn’t see you all day. Big whoop.”

“Are you mad that I left you at the party? Is that it? It won’t happen again.”

Sure it won’t. Jason’s been to about a hundred parties with him. Some were like the one on Saturday and then others were pretty chill, but it didn’t matter what type of party it was; Grant always wanted to do dumb shit and Jason had to back out. He could could the amount of times he’d gone home with Grant on one hand.

As casually as he can, he says, “I just need a little space. I’m um, feeling kinda sick.”

“Shit man,” Grant sighs. “Do you want some meds? My dad has this stuff he gives to his guys. It gets them right back on their feet.”

Like he wanted military-grade acetaminophen. “Not necessary.”

“Huh.” Grant kicks a rock across the quad. It skids to a stop beneath a plastic trash can. “What if I can get Isabel to go to prom with you?”

Jason’s heart skips a beat. “What?”

“I can ask Rose to talk you up,” Grant says. “It can’t be that hard, can it?”

Biting his lip, Jason resists the urge to say yes, it can. Even if Isabel liked Rose—and he’s pretty sure she doesn’t—no way she’d change her mind about him. He wouldn’t, in her place. There’s something wrong with him, and no one wants a boyfriend in need of repairs.

“Not gonna happen,” he mutters. “Just forget it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Jason says, hiking his backpack over his shoulders. “I’m positive.”

Grant whistles slowly. “Damn. What happened between you guys?”

“She says that we’re, uh, not compatible.” _ Understatement of the year right there, _he thinks.

“Right, right. Well, like I’m always saying: there’s plenty of fish in the—” He stops suddenly, his eyes fixed on something over Jason’s shoulder. “What the fuck? Why the hell is _ he _ talking to _ them? _”

Jason turns, and his stomach sinks to his feet. _ Fuck. _ What the fuck is he doing _ here? _

Dick Fucking Grayson is standing by the office, showing off his perfect teeth as he talks with Rayner and Harper. He nods excitedly at something Rayner is saying. Then his laugh peals throughout the quad, and Jason feels his chest constrict.

“That’s Wayne’s kid, right?” Grant asks, oblivious to the way Jason’s knees are trembling. “Didn’t he graduate like, two years ago?”

“Um, yeah,” Jason replies, tongue fat and sluggish. He needs to get out of here. Right _ now_. “Look, I’ve got to go. I told my boss I’d be there at three-thirty. Tell Coach Clover I won’t be at practice today.”

Grant ignores him. “I mean, I always thought he was kinda gay. All those acrobatics, you know? And doesn’t his dad do charities for GLAAD or something?”

_ Shut up shut up shut up_, he thinks, clenching his teeth. He’s got to leave. He shouldn’t wait for Grant to respond. He should just leave, before it’s—

Too late. 

Dick’s eyes flicker over to him, and his face cracks wide open in a smile. He waves, and Jason flinches as he waits for the inevitable shout, some wise-ass comment about cars or alcohol or whatever, but there’s nothing. It was just a wave. Except it was enough to make Rayner and Harper and Grant turn toward him and stare.

_ Shit shit shit shit shit_. No way Rayner’s going to keep his pretty mouth shut. No way Grant’s not going to ask him something stupid.

Jason spins around and walks away quickly, slouched over as if that will make him more invisible. Behind him, he can hear Grant in pursuit. 

“What the hell was that?” he asks. 

“Nothing.” 

“Didn’t look like nothing. How do you know him?”

Jason scoffs. “You said it yourself, dumbass. He used to go here.”

“Hey!” Grant steps in front of him, blocking his path. “What the fuck is up with you? Seriously.”

“Get out of my way, Wilson.”

“No fucking way. I’m not moving until you tell me what your deal is.”

Jason clenches his teeth, swallowing the rage and shame that is building in his throat. He just needs a moment to cool down. He needs to sit by himself, breathe _ in, two three four_, and _ out, two three four _and then maybe it’ll all sort itself out.

“I’m not going to tell you again,” he says coolly. “Move.”

Grant crosses his arms. “No. I’m _ worried _about you, man. What’s wrong—”

“There is _ nothing _wrong with me!” Jason snarls, stepping forward. Before he can stop himself, he throws his shoulder into Grant’s, knocking him back. Grant exhales sharply as he stumbles, catching himself on a lamppost.

“What the shit,” he exclaims, eyes on fire. “You’re fucking crazy.”

“Fuck off.” 

The other boy steps forward and pushes him, hard. “Go suck a dick, asshole.”

“Shut up,” Jason hisses, heat rising to his cheeks. _ He doesn’t know, he _ can’t _ know... _

Grant looks at him a moment longer, then walks away. Jason calls his name stupidly, as if that would make any difference, as if that would undo the last thirty seconds and bring them back to a point where he could still fix this. His face burns. There is nothing left for him to do. He needs to get out of here before his stupid brain makes everything worse.

Jason grips the straps of his bag until his knuckles are green and bloodless and takes off, running until he hears nothing but the beat of his heart in his ears. He thinks about Grayson. He thinks about Rayner, and Harper. He thinks about Grant.

Fuck. What the fuck was he thinking? Grant’s a jackass, but he’s the only real friend Jason’s ever had. The only person who knows about his shit—well, most of it—and tries to talk him through it. And maybe, maybe if Jason had told him the truth about what had happened at the party, he could help, somehow—

No. There was nothing to make better. Jason is fine. He’s fine.

Panting, he comes to a stop three blocks down the street. _ You just need to get out of here_, he thinks, remembering the letter from the College of New Jersey. He had written the financial aid department, expressed concern about the cost. Maybe they’ll get back to him with good news. It was like his advisors said. _ Once you get in, you know that the colleges want you, and they’ll work to keep you. _

Like advisors were ever right about anything.

“Fuck me,” he mutters, picking at the skin around his thumbnail.

Suddenly Jason sees himself from an outsider’s perspective: a breathless, wild-eyed kid in shitty clothes, bent over the sidewalk as he talks to himself. The houses around here are big and old. He gives it two more minutes before someone calls the police.

What time is it anyway? He pulls out his phone and checks: 3:17. _ Shit_. He has thirteen minutes to get to work, and the construction site is downtown, nearly a mile away.

_ Forget Grant_, he tells himself. It’s not the time.

Ten minutes later, he’s half a block from the site when he gets a text. 

_ Hey! I didn’t get to say hi :( _

It’s from an unknown number, which means it could only be from one person. Jason shoves his phone back in his pocket and huffs. Just because Dick’s a rich son of a bitch, it doesn’t mean that Jason has to respond right away. He can wait like the blue-collar common folk. Besides, he deserves it. Everything, _ everything _is his fucking fault.

When he pushes past the chain-link gate leading to the construction site, the familiar sounds of power tools and excavators greets him. Authority Construction’s been doing some basic city upkeep shit and have been for months, fortifying some old buildings that threatened to fall over if someone sneezed on them. At least the guys were nice. Even in his first few months on the job, when he couldn’t tell the difference between an angle grinder and sanders, when he didn’t know what people meant when they told him to fetch the bull float, no one snapped at him. 

As he nears the lockers, he sees his boss waiting, tapping a pen against his clipboard. Lucas is scowling, which is a good sign. He only smiles when he’s angry. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Lucas says, keeping his eyes fixed on the clipboard.

Jason rolls his eyes. Standing well over six feet tall and two feet wide, with a dirty blonde mohawk and perpetually bruised knuckles, Lucas is the kind of guy to make strangers tremble where they stand. But Jason knows better. His boss is scary and crazy as shit, yes, but he’s also real sweet when he’s not pissed off. And Jason never pisses him off.

“Missed the bus,” he lies, shoving his stuff in the temporary lockers. His phone buzzes again, but he refuses to look at it. “Won’t happen again.”

“Buy a car, dipshit.”

Jason scoffs as he tugs on the straps of his hardhat. “You don’t pay me enough for that.”

“You don’t work enough to be paid like that,” Lucas laughs. 

“Fair.” 

“Thought so,” Lucas says, flipping through the pages on his clipboard and scribbling something down, “I’m gonna need you to help Cash with the scaffolding. You win the fight?”

The question catches him off-guard. “What?”

Lucas motions to his face. “I didn’t know soccer is a contact sport.”

Jason brings a hand to his cheek, as if his bruises could come off on his fingers. Right. He’d forgotten that he looks like he’s been dragged behind a four-wheeler. No wonder Grant didn’t take a swing at him. 

“I’d call it a draw,” he says.

“Damn.” Lucas shakes his head. “I can teach you how to punch.”

“I know how to punch,” Jason replies, rolling up his sleeves. The scaffolding has been up for a month. God knows how much dirt and birdshit is caked onto the metal. 

“Please. You’re what, sixteen? You’re a fucking baby.”

“Eighteen.”

“Oh wow. I take it back. You’re the literal crypt keeper.”

Sleeves rolled, Jason gives Lucas a mock salute. “See you at closing time,” he says, and heads off towards the scaffolding. 

Two hours later, and he’s still carrying tubes and boards from a truck to the facade of the building, where Cash and a handful of guys haul it up to the roof. His arms ache from the lifting, and his thighs burn every time he bends down to lift some more. Sometimes he wonders how Lucas does it, managing an entire site while he hauls concrete slabs like feather pillows. _ God_, he looks so powerful when he works, the way the tendons in his arms ripple, the way his shoulder blades fold over the muscles of his back.

Jason drops the aluminum tubes in his arms. They clatter against the ground, and a few guys look over but say nothing. _ Fuck_. He has to fucking quit his job. 

Cash sticks his head over the edge of the roof. “You alright there?” he calls. 

“Yeah! I mean, yeah. Sorry.”

Even though he’s thirty feet up, Jason can sense the man rolling his eyes. “We’ve only got thirty minutes left,” he says. “Don’t kill yourself.”

Jason bends down—_ god damn_, his legs hurt—and gathers the tubes back in his arms. “I’ll do my best,” he says, though he knows Cash is no longer listening.

For the next half hour, he walks back and forth, picking things up and dropping things off. He doesn’t think about Lucas, just as he doesn’t think about how he’ll have to see Grant at school again tomorrow, just as he refuses to think about what will happen once Rayner opens his big mouth.

_ Did you guys hear that Jason Todd’s a gay in denial? Yeah! Grayson said he showed up to a Rainbow meeting and freaked out_.

Maybe he’ll show up at school and see that someone’s written slurs all over his locker with a Sharpie. Or maybe they’ll kick him out of the locker room. Or maybe, like Isabel, they’ll just shake their heads and say, “yeah, duh.” 

As Jason walks back to where he stored his stuff, he wonders which one is worse. 

He’s putting his hardhat away when he hears Lucas come up behind him.

“Hey Jason. You free Sunday? One of our guys just backed out.”

“Sunday,” Jason repeats, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. His gut tells him he has something going on that day. _ What was it again? _Oh. Right. That’s the day Dick asked him to help out. “I’m sorry. I told my, um, friend—er, someone I know—that I was available for a project that day.”

“A friend, huh? Or someone you know?”

_ Jesus Christ_. “Just some guy I owe a favor.”

Lucas’ face darkens. “Is this the same guy who did that to your face?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Didn’t he just have this exchange? “Yes.”

His boss exhales a long hiss of air. “Right. Well, my offer still stands. You’re never too old to learn how to wreck people.”

“That’s nice,” Jason says.

“Some of us are heading out for drinks. You want to join us?”

_ Yes_. _ No. Fuck. _“Eighteen, remember?”

Lucas shrugs. “Water is a drink, too.”

Jason squeezes the straps of his backpack, itching to crawl into the dirt beneath his feet. “Thanks, but I—I’ve got to go,” he stammers. “School night.”

“Fuck. I forgot. Go do your fucking homework, kid.” Lucas tips his hardhat and strolls off, yelling at someone who left their station covered in gum wrappers. 

Before anyone else can talk to him, Jason walks quickly away from the construction site, shoving in earbuds to drown out his thoughts. Some store displays a rainbow flag in its window. He looks away and quickens his pace.

He’s not gay. He’s not. He _ likes _girls. He likes their soft features, the pitch of their voices, the way they swing their hips when they walk. 

Another, stranger Jason whispers in his ear: _ You like Dick’s arms. You like Roy’s jaw. You like Lucas’ chest. _

Okay, okay, but those things are superficial. 

_ And Isabel’s hips aren’t? _

Jason turns up his music. When he jumps on a bus, he’s pretty sure the old woman sitting across from him can hear it through his earphones. She stares at him and frowns, and he pulls his hood over his head. Does she know that he likes boys? Is that why she’s frowning?

_ But you don’t like boys_, he tells himself. _ You don’t_.

He repeats the words to himself as he jumps up the stairs to his apartment, as he unlocks the door, as he checks to make sure his mom’s still breathing on the couch. Once he is in his room, he throws his stuff down and pulls out the crappy laptop, pressing the power button until the screen lights up. 

God, is he really doing this? This is stupid, right? It’s not a “Rainbow Youth Center” bad idea, but it’s got to be up there. 

Jason opens up the search engine and asks it if he’s gay. 

_ There is no one way gay people act or look...there are more identities than just “gay” and “straight”...blah blah blah _… 

He scrolls further. _ You might want to ask yourself these questions: Do I feel strong emotional bonds to the same sex? Am I physically attracted to the same sex? Have I ever been sexually attracted to the same sex? Have I considered having a sexual relationship with someone of the same sex? _

Strong emotional bonds...those are friendships, right? That’s a bad question. And the physically attracted one is dumb, too. Half the guys on the soccer team have talked about how handsome Chris Pine and Idris Elba are. Some people are objectively attractive. Everyone knows this. 

_ Have I ever been sexually attracted to the same sex? Have I considered having a sexual relationship with someone of the same sex? _

Easy. No and no. 

He’s about to close the laptop when a feeling of dread paralyzes his fingers. His eyes flicker back to the questions and he asks himself another one, one that he didn’t really mean to ask, one that he doesn’t really want to answer.

_ Have I ever been sexually attracted to the opposite sex? _

God, that’s such a stupid question. Why would he even ask himself that? Of course he has. Hasn’t he?

Biting his thumbnail, Jason thinks about what it was like to be with Isabel. He remembers wanting to kiss her, to trace the shape of her body. That’s sexual attraction, right? Wanting to touch another person? Right?

And there’s that voice again, that stupid, tiny little voice: _ Let’s be honest with ourselves. You’ve never wanted to fuck anyone. You didn’t want to fuck Isabel, and you didn’t want to fuck Dawn, and that makes you fucking weird. _

His insides begin to splinter. At once he closes the page and opens a new one, the Instagram page for the Rainbow Youth Center. He doesn’t know why he wants to look at it. It only makes him feel worse, watching youths who are boasting rainbows and grinning from ear-to-ear. There’s two preteens laughing and waving flags, the trans pride flag and another purple and green one he doesn’t recognize. There’s two girls his age, signing “I love you” in ASL. That woman, Kate, with another woman who must be her wife, judging by the matching wedding bands. And then there’s Dick, grinning wildly, looking perfect even though the wind’s blowing his hair and he’s wearing clothes straight from an 80s department store catalog.

He’s beautiful, Jason realizes. He’s beautiful and confident and he knows what he is and it’s _ just not fair_.

Jason studies Dick’s face, the way his eyes—god, those eyes—sparkle in the sun, the way his hair brushes over his face and ears. Then, before he can stop himself, he wonders what it would be like to kiss him. To run his lips over that angled jaw. To draw his fingers over his toned shoulders. It makes him feel the same way he felt about Isabel, the same way he feels about all the beautiful people he’s ever met. It makes him feel nothing.

And he realizes: he likes men and women equally not-at-all.

But that can’t be right. People are supposed to want sex. They’re supposed to fantasize about sex. They’re supposed to grow up, have sex, get married, have more sex, and start a family. For centuries and centuries people have been having sex to pass on their DNA to people who will do the same. How could he suddenly _ not _want that?

He needs a drink.

Shutting down the laptop, Jason climbs off of his bed and walks down the hall, his feet padding against the carpet. His mom is still asleep on the couch, probably weighed down by a couple pills. She wouldn’t hear him if he smashed a bottle against the wall.

There’s only one beer in the fridge, so he leaves it and pours himself a generous glass of vodka. Later, he’ll water down the bottle so his mom won’t notice. But he doesn’t need to do that now. Now, all he needs is to sit on the balcony and watch the sun fall over the skyline. 

He lets his legs dangle between the bars of the railing, swinging them back and forth as he pours the liquor down his throat. _ This is what I do_, he thinks. _ This is what I am_.

For a moment, the smallest moment, he wishes he were gay, or bisexual. At least then he’d know he isn’t broken. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <strike>help this story is getting away from me</strike>
> 
> So ummmm I just found out that AO3 is lacking in Midnighter/Apollo fics??? This is homophobic. 
> 
> Anyway, I realize I don't have a lot of JayDick for a JayDick fic. Next chapter will fix that. And remember kids, when you lift heavy objects, be sure to lift with your knees and not your back.


	7. Community Project

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. I ran out of "place name" chapter titles lmao. Oh well. It was bound to happen sometime.
> 
> This chapter's a little bit longer, because I promised Jaydick bonding, and I realized 2,000 words in that there was still no Jaydick. *screams*
> 
> _Warnings for (brief) mentions of the following things: underage drinking, drugs, the g-slur, and assault_

No one at school looks at him differently. Well. Grant is the exception. He doesn’t look at him anymore, except in pointed, angry glances. This Jason can live with. Better to have lost one friend than to have Rayner spreading rumors about him behind his back.

_ Except they’re not really rumors, _ the strange Jason says. _ Are they? _

On Friday afternoon he stays late in the library, waiting for the athletic teams to clear from the locker rooms so he won’t have a chance to look at shirtless boys. He taps his pencil absentmindedly against the desk as he watches people pass by the windows, chatting and laughing and motioning with excitement. After five minutes, the crowds thin. By now the boys should be out on the field, the court, the pitch, wherever. 

His phone buzzes. It’s _ him_.

_ Hey Jason! We’re gonna meet at the Community Center at 10 on Sunday. Hope you can make it! _

He writes the most impersonal reply he can muster: _ Sure. I owe you a favor, remember? _

_ Great! Looking forward to seeing you! _😊

👍

_ Also, wear clothes you can get dirty. _

_ K. _

When Dick doesn’t text back, Jason stands and gathers his things, nodding at the librarian as he slips out the door. She offers a thin smile and turns back to her computer. Maybe she knows there’s something strange about him, that his mind is racing with thoughts about a boy he hardly knows and doesn’t even like. Maybe she can tell from the way his hair falls in front of his eyes, the way he hugs his books to his chest, the way his clothes are plain and rumpled. Oh god. She knows.

The afternoon is brisk and overcast, but his face is burning.

In the locker room he puts on his soccer gear and stares at the floor, tugging his laces until they threaten to tear. At least they only have three more weeks until the end of the season. Five games, ten practices. And he’ll probably miss a few of them for work. 

This is what Jason tells himself as he does sprints and kicks a ball across the field, going through the motions without even thinking about them. Ball: kick. Offense: run. Defense: sprint. Look: pass. Goal: shoot. 

At some point, Virgil kicks him the ball. It bounces under his foot and rolls to the other side of the field, where the girls are playing. Grant throws up his hands in anger.

“Really?” he says. “It was right there.”

Jason says nothing in reply. Instead he jogs over to the ball, shrugging off the heat of Grant’s stare. On the other side of the field, the girls are practicing crosses into the penalty box. Harper sends the ball flying; a girl in a hijab knocks it into the goal. Reset, start again. Jason turns away and kicks the ball back to Virgil.

After the last whistle is blown and people are gathering around the bags, Jason stands by the edge of the field, balancing the ball on the top of his foot. A few of the guys wave at him to join them. He shrugs and points down, as if the ball were tethering him to the earth, as if he couldn’t risk letting it fall. This seems to do the trick.

In the corner of his eye, he sees flashes of blue and green walking down the track. Harper is trying to give the ball to Rayner, but Rayner keeps shaking his head and laughing. They don’t even look at him, which is good, he guesses.

Part of him wants to know how much Dick told them. Another reminds him that he only has two months until graduation, that he should just stay quiet and then get the hell out of here. Who cares if he leaves Gotham High on a sour note? Lots of people hate high school. There’s nothing wrong with that.

And yet when Jason grabs his things, he finds he is headed in the same direction. _ It’s just a coincidence_, he tells himself. They’re going to the parking lot, and he’s going to the bus stop, which is behind the parking lot. And both of them are shorter than he is, which is why he’s catching up. Longer legs, and all.

Suddenly Harper turns around and looks at him. “Are you following us?” she asks.

“I’m going to the bus stop.”

“Uh huh. Sure.”

“Buddy,” Rayner says, “if you think I’m hot, I’d totally understand.”

An angry blush spreads across his face. “I just…” _ Say something, dumbass! _“I want to know why he was talking to you.”

“Who are you talking about?” Harper asks.

“Dick!”

“Jesus, man. She was only asking a question.”

_ God damn Rayner. _ “Dick Grayson,” he adds, itching to fold into himself and disappear. “On Monday. He was talking to you.”

“Oh.” Harper pulls the strap of her bag up her shoulder. “Why do you care?”

Jason pauses as he realizes he’s entered a no-win scenario. If he was wrong, and Dick said nothing, they’ll know something is up—or worse: they’ll think he has a crush on Dick. (Which is stupid, because he doesn’t. He _ doesn’t _.) And even if he was right, and Dick was talking about him, then he’s still stuck in the hell he’s living. 

“Well, I think—don’t take this the wrong way—I think he thinks he knows something about me. But he’s wrong. It’s not true.”

Rayner cocks his head. “What’s not true?”

“Whatever he said!”

“Are you—are you okay?” Harper asks. “You’re shaking, and you’re kinda pale.”

Jason looks down. She’s right. His hands are trembling around the straps of his bag; the knuckles are bone-white. “Forget it,” he mumbles. “I’m just—forget it.”

“Wait,” Rayner grabs his arm before he can walk away. His hands are warm and stronger than Jason would have expected. “You need to sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“Like hell you’re fine,” Harper snaps. “I’m giving you a ride home, asshole.”

Rayner looks at Harper like she’s grown a second head. “Really, Row?”

For once, Jason agrees with him. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No. I just don’t want to find your dead body in the parking lot tomorrow.”

“I’m not going to die.”

Harper waves him off. “You get what I mean. And the bus just left, so I don’t know what else you’re gonna do.”

_Fuck, really? _Jason cranes his head toward the bus stop in front of the school, just in time to see the red lights of the 16 bus flashing down the street. Shit. He knew from experience that the next one wouldn’t come for another hour.

“Look dude,” she says, pulling out a pair of keys and pressing a button. Two cars down, a beat-up station wagon beeps twice. “We’ll talk in the car. Okay?”

“Why?” Jason blurts out.

“Why what?”

“Why are you being nice to me? What did he tell you?”

Rolling his eyes, Rayner says, “He didn’t tell us anything.”

“Then what—”

Harper cuts him off. “Get in the car, asshole, or I’ll tell everyone what you think he told us.”

His blood runs cold. God damn it. He_knew _ he shouldn’t have said anything. Fuck. He’s so fucking _ stupid! _

As he climbs into the back seat, he hears Rayner whisper, “That might have been a bit harsh.”

The car starts with a grumble. It’s at least twenty years old, maybe even older. A real tin can. On the dashboard, there’s a picture of Harper with a kid who can only be her brother. They even have the same haircut.

Taking a deep breath, Jason says, “I live in—”

“I know where you live,” Harper replies, turning onto the street.

“Wait, what?”

She and Rayner look at each other, then burst into laughter. “Oh my god, dude. Really?” she says with a snort.

Jason stares blankly. Did he enter an alternate earth or something? What the hell is going on?

“You guys live in the same building,” Rayner explains. “Why do you think she offered you a ride?”

He looks at Harper. “But I’ve never seen you.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” she replies, shrugging.

With a sigh, Jason settles back into the seat. For about a minute no one talks, they sit quietly watching the houses pass by the windows. Jason wonders what they must think of him now, the dumb jock who never notices anyone but himself. Maybe Harper should just pull over and leave him on the side of the road. It’s not like he hasn’t walked home before.

“Is Todd your first name or your last name?” Rayner asks suddenly. He’s staring at Jason from the front seat, a genuine look on his face, as if he really cares about the answer. 

“Last. My first name’s Jason.”

“Nice to meet you, Jason. I’m Kyle,” Rayner replies, extending a hand.

Jason takes it cautiously. 

“What? I’m not going to bite.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“You really have a low opinion of us, huh.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Jason says quickly. “It’s just, I shouldn’t have said anything about...you know…” _ Shut up, moron _.

Ahead, a stop light flashes red. The car slows to a halt. Harper turns around in the driver's seat and stares at him.

“I was joking,” she says. “Earlier. When I said that thing about Dick. I wouldn’t spread things like that. Or make fun of you for it.”

Rayner—Kyle—nods in earnest. “None of us would.”

The light falls green, and they’re moving again. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Jason thinks about what they don’t know, that it’s not as simple as him dreaming about boys, that there’s something wrong with his head and Rainbow Youth can’t fix that. 

_ You’re fucking weird _, the tiny voice says again.

But they don’t know these things, and they can’t hear the tiny voice.

“Anyway,” Harper says, clearing her throat. “How long have you lived on Briggs?”

“Four years.”

“Damn. You beat me. I’m working on eighteen months. It’s not the best place, but Cullen and I make it work.”

Cullen. That must be the kid in the picture.

“You live with your brother?” he asks.

“Yep. It’s just us. Sometimes Kyle, if he’s too smashed to make it all the way home to Gotham Heights.”

“Hey!”

Jason falls back and lets them argue. He doesn’t say much for the rest of the car ride, except to answer superficial questions. No I don’t have pets. Dogs and cats are both pretty cool. My mom doesn’t work, she’s sick. No, it’s okay. She’s going through treatment. No, I haven’t seen that movie. Our homework is to finish _ Pride and Prejudice _. Yes, I have read it before. I really like it.

After Harper parks in spot 312A, he gets out of the car and offers a hasty thank you. 

“Have fun on Sunday,” Kyle says. 

Jason whips around. “What?”

“That’s what Dick was talking about, you know. He told us that you’d agreed to help out the group with the construction project.”

“That’s it?”

Kyle nods and, giving him a wave, disappears around the corner with Harper. Jason stands alone in the parking garage, staring at the cracks in the asphalt. One of the fluorescent lights above him blinks rapidly, then dies. He wonders if they meant what they said about making fun of him, or if they were trying to crack him open to see what’s inside. 

The next morning, he sees Harper as he’s leaving for work. Of course he does. That’s how it works, isn’t it? Someone points something out to you and from then on it’s the only thing you notice. But at least she doesn’t seem to notice him back. She’s too busy listening to music as she heaves bags of trash into the dumpsters. 

Jason continues on. As the day passes, so him of himself is lost in the motions: 

Catch the bus. Nod at Lucas. Get assignment. Don’t look at his chest. Pass cables. Wrap cables. Move rebar. Stop for lunch, two protein bars and beef jerky. More cables. More rebar. Don’t look at Lucas. Don’t go out to drinks with anyone. Catch the bus. See Harper and Cullen getting into their car. Make food for Mom. Listen to her talk about Tommy. Do homework. Drink. Pass out in bed.

And then it is Sunday morning, and his phone is screaming at him to get up. Light falls through the window of his room. _ Ugh, _he thinks. Drunk Jason doesn’t know how to close shades. 

_ Drunk Jason is an idiot, _ the strange voice says. _ Drunk Jason lets girls fuck him even though he doesn’t want them to. _

A sharp ache washes through him. For a second he can feel _ her _ on top of him, feel her hot breath on his cheeks. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, and the feeling goes away.

The alarm is still going off. Leaning over, he switches off his alarm and sits up. “Damn,” he groans, feeling his heartbeat throb in his head. It’s not unbearable at least. A mild annoyance, at worst. But still. Jason takes a shower to clear his head and wash the smell of concrete and dust from his skin.

_ Why did I agree to this? _he wonders as he picks up a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt off the floor of his room. The mirror tells him that he looks horrible. Like he crawled out of a dumpster. New shirt. New pants. The result is marginally better.

As he steps off the bus, he finds himself lingering outside the doors of the Community Center, not because he worries that someone might see him, but because he doesn’t know what to think. A week ago, he would have told himself that he was straight and confused. Hell, he _ did _do that. And now, he’s looking at the wide lettering above the doors, lost in his own body. 

With a sigh, he pushes the door open and heads down the hall, where he sees a group of people gathered around a table. Jason stands awkwardly behind them, looking for Dick among the groups in the distance. 

Finally, he taps someone on the shoulder. The woman turns around, caught in a fit of laughter. It’s Kate.

“Oh! Hi!” she says. “I’ve seen you before. Jason, right?”

“Yeah. Hi. I’m, uh, looking for Dick,” he replies, and at once his cheeks are boiling. _ I’m looking for dick. _Did he really just say that?

Luckily, Kate seems to understand. “Oh, Dick. He’s—Maggie, where’s Dick?”

A Latina woman at the table looks up. _ That’s her wife _, Jason thinks, remembering the photo he saw on the Instagram page. 

“He’s retouching the mural on the stairs,” she says, smiling at Jason. “Hey! The name’s Maggie.”

“Jason.”

Maggie shoots a look at Kate. “Babe. You didn’t tell me Dick has a new boyfriend.”

Aaaannd the blush is back. “Wait, no,” he stammers, letting out a breathy laugh. “I’m not—we’re not—he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Maggie offers an apologetic smile. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“It’s cool,” he replies, feeling very warm.

Kate blows a kiss at Maggie. “Like _ I _would keep things from you,” she says, reaching down to ruffle her wife’s dark, wavy hair.

Jason offers the two of them a weak wave, and hurries toward the stairs before he starts wishing to share such a soft intimacy with someone. That could never end well.

At the foot of the staircase, Dick stands, clutching paintbrushes in front of a rainbow mural. Even in jean shorts and a ratty sweater he could be a model. No wonder Roy and Stef are looking at him like he’s Michaelangelo’s David. It’s incredible that the other people with him, a dark-haired boy and an Asian girl, can focus on the mural and not on his face.

_ Or his ass, _ Jason thinks before he can stop himself _ . _

Then Dick is looking at him, and his smile makes Jason’s stomach clench. “Hey!” he says brightly, dropping the brushes in paint trays. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

Jason shrugs. “I owe you one.”

“Damn right you do,” Roy laughs.

Steph elbows him in the ribs, hissing, “Dude!”

Suddenly his heart is pounding in his mouth. “You told them?” he asks Dick, surprised at how hurt he is. _ Why do you care? He’s just a stupid rich boy _.

But Roy cuts in before Dick can respond. “We were there,” he says. “Do you—do you not remember?”

_ Oh. _Jason shakes his head. “Sorry, I—”

Dick waves him off. “Pssshh. No apologies, okay? Here, sit,” he says, patting the stairs. 

He sits, keenly aware of how close he is to Dick’s thigh. _ Fuck _, he’s so beautiful. It’s not fair. 

The dark-haired boy working on the mural turns around and glares at Dick. “So,” he says, “Are you going to introduce us, or am I just going to stand here looking like an ass?”

“Oh yeah. Jason, this is Tim, my brother, and Cass—”

“My girlfriend,” Steph finishes. 

At the mention of her name, Cass turns around and gives him a shy wave. Then she’s back at her work, tracing the faded black lines of the mural with sharp, fresh ones.

“Dick says that you play soccer,” Tim says. “You have a favorite team?”

“Women’s National, I guess.”

“Ugh, yes,” Steph says, blowing a kiss into the air.

Tim shrugs. “As long as it’s not the Star City Arrows.”

Roy throws a pencil at Tim, who bats it away casually, grinning. For someone who isn’t related to Dick—or at least, Jason assumes they aren’t—they look fairly similar. His skin is lighter and his hair shorter, though he also has that dark haired, blue-eyed look. 

“So,” Dick says, and Jason can feel the warmth of his gaze on his face. It’s a struggle to look at him without burning. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine.”

“You look good.”

_ Fuck. _Jason pinches the skin between his thumb and forefinger, hoping that the pain will draw the blood from his cheeks. “Thanks,” he mutters. “I, uh, like your shorts.”

“Oh, these things?” Dick twists his body to look over himself. “I just cut up an old pair of jeans.”

“_Haute couture,_” Roy adds.

Jason feels himself smiling with the rest of them. “That’s kinda thrifty for a rich kid.”

Dick shrugs, giving him that stupid, beautiful grin. 

“Not to be a party pooper,” Tim says, rolling his eyes. He picks up a can of paint and starts touching up the yellow parts of the rainbow. “But shouldn’t we be, you know, working?”

Roy sticks out his tongue. “You’re no fun,” he says. 

“But I’m right, right?”

“Right,” Dick replies, standing. Then he looks down at Jason. “You know how to use power tools?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh thank god.” 

“What?”

“We’ve got a handicap ramp to assemble. Think you’re up for the job?”

Jason stands, shoving his hands in his pockets. “That’s what I’m here for,” he says. 

“Sweet.” Turning to the others, Dick says, “I’ll catch you guys later.”

And then his hand is around Jason’s arm, and he’s dragging him out back. Dick’s hands are warm and more calloused than he would have expected, like a weightlifter’s, or an acrobat’s. When he lets go, Jason can still feel him on his arm, squeezing gently.

Dick hands him a drill, and motions to a pile of metal sheets and poles. “It’s a kit,” he explains. “Just a temporary solution. But it will do for now.”

“Okay.”

“So…” 

Jason realizes he’s waiting for him to give instructions. “Oh. Where’s the paper?” 

“The paper?”

“The paper. With the instructions.”

“Ah. Here.” Dick hands him a little booklet. “Bruce would buy me a lot of Lego sets when I was a kid, you know. Thought it would make me good at this stuff, but—”

“—it’s different,” Jason finishes, flipping through the booklet. _ Step 1: Measure the height from the upper landing location to the ground _. “Yeah. A lot of people think it’s easy work.”

“Oof. Does your boss understand, at least?”

“Lucas? Yeah. He’s cool. Does a lot of it with us.”

“Wait,” Dick says. “Lucas? As in, Lucas Trent?”

_ Jesus Christ _. “Is there anyone in Gotham you don’t know?” Jason asks flatly, tossing a measuring tape at Dick. “We’re supposed to measure from the deck to the ground, by the way.”

Dick kneels down—Jason looks away—and starts measuring. “Bruce has hired Lucas a few times. That’s all. Cool guy.”

“Yes. Cool.”

“It’s twenty inches.”

“Thanks.”

_ Step 2: Adjust upper legs (C) to proper height and tighten with an allen wrench. _

“Got an allen wrench?” Jason asks. 

Dick stares blankly.

“You know,” Jason adds, gesturing. For the first time, he appreciates the patience of the guys he works with. How they didn’t start screaming at him, he’ll never know. “The thingy with the hexagonal hole.”

“Oh. This.”

They work for a while in relative silence, sharing only the names of tools and descriptions of what they look like, what they do. A few people stop by and offer to help, but Dick turns it away every time.

“We got this,” he says, winking at Jason. 

Jason wishes he’d stop. Or maybe he doesn’t. He just doesn’t know, anymore.

After twenty minutes, when the first section of the ramp is complete, Dick says suddenly, “You like music? I can go grab a speaker.”

“I’m good. We probably have very different tastes in music,” Jason replies. 

“Wait! Let me guess. Evanescence.”

“What? No!”

Dick just stands there, smirking.

“Okay, fine. But I mostly listen to Breaking Benjamin. Nine Inch Nails. Three Days Grace. That kind of thing,” Jason adds, his face burning. _ Why do you care what he thinks? Stop it! _

“I get it, I get it,” Dick laughs. “We’re all good.”

“Let me guess. You like Lana del Rey and Hozier and whatever.”

“Yep. Marina too. And Birdy. And Cigarettes After Sex, but _ sshh. _ That one’s my guilty pleasure.”

Jason aligns one of the legs of the ramp and puts the screw into place. The drill whirs, and then the leg is steady. “Second section’s done,” he says, more to fill the silence than anything else.

Dick taps the sheet of aluminum as if testing its strength. “I’ve got to say,” he muses, “it’s nice having a guy who knows how to screw.”

At once Jason’s stomach sinks to his toes. He finds himself staring at the ground as he chews his own tongue, wanting so badly not to care, not to feel so locked up inside his own body. Does Dick know? Is he rubbing it in? Fuck, fuck, _ fuck! _

“Sorry,” Dick says suddenly.

Clearing his throat, Jason forces himself to shrug it off. “Why are you apologizing?”

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not worked up over a joke.”

Dick shrugs. “I mean, it’s okay if you are. I hate it when people make ‘gypsy’ jokes. ”

“You’re Romani?” Jason asks.

“Yup.”

“Oh,” he replies, not sure what else to say. “That’s cool.”

Dick reaches down to pick up another piece of the ramp. “Now. Where were we?”

“Step 13.” 

“Lucky us,” Dick says. He’s just about to say something else when Roy appears next to them and wraps an arm around Dick.

“Hey. I’m about to head out. Gotta go to—” He pauses, and looks over at Jason. “—a meeting. See you later.”

Dick nods. “Take care, man.”

“See you around, Jason?”

Jason gives a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders. “Maybe,” he mutters.

Then Roy is gone, and it’s just the two of them again. Dick says nothing as he assembles part of a railing. He looks worried, and Jason can guess why. A minute passes. Two minutes.

_ This has to be a record for him. _

Finally, when he can’t stand the silence, he says, “Roy seems like a good friend.”

“Yep. Great.”

_ Fuck. _He has to say it, doesn’t he? 

“I know someone who’s suffering from addiction,” Jason blurts out. “It’s hard.”

Dick looks up at him, smiling kindly. “Roy’s getting help. He’s almost three months clean.”

The unsaid hangs between them. _ But for how long? _Jason remembers the track marks on Roy’s arm; no way those belonged to a beginner. They weren’t as bad as his mom’s, but they were something. And everyone knows that groups rarely work on long-time users. 

“That’s good to hear,” Jason says softly. “I’d give anything for my—for this person to get clean.”

Dick quiets, then sighs loudly. “Cheery conversation, this.”

“Yeah.”

“Want to go grab a snack? There’s bagels.”

Jason nods, and the two of them are headed inside to the snack table, where Dick grabs a plate for them both.

“Stay away from the cinnamon raisin,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because it has raisins in it. Why else?”

With a start, Jason realizes that he is chuckling. Genuinely. _ This isn’t so bad, _he thinks, watching Dick plop a spoonful of cream cheese on the side of his plate. Being around him feels effortless, almost natural. It’s almost enough to make him forget what he was so afraid of.

When they’re sitting cross-legged on the grass, Dick tells him that he’s gotten cream cheese on his face. “Right there,” he says, pointing.

“Here?”

“No. Here.”

Jason touches his cheek. His fingers come back clean.

“No!” Dick laughs. “Here. Hold still.”

And he’s leaning forward, and he’s so close, and Jason can feel his breath on his face, and he imagines, just for a second, leaning forward and kissing him. His heart thumps against his ribcage. _ Don’t _, his head tells him, but maybe his head is wrong, and he should, he—

Dick swipes his napkin over his cheek and crumples it into a ball. “How did you even get it there” he asks, stifling a laugh.

Jason blinks, hard. _ What the fuck just happened? _“I’m a messy eater, I guess,” he mumbles.

“Right.” Leaning back on the grass, Dick stretches out, as if making a springtime snow angel. “So,” he says, “Are you seeing anyone?”

Nearly choking on his tongue, Jason forces out, “Why are you asking?”

_ He’s not—is he? _

“Relax. I’m just trying to get to know you.”

_ Oh. _

“No.” A pause. “Are you?”

“No,” Dick replies, and Jason feels a tension leave him, one that he didn’t even know he was carrying. 

_ Why do you care? Why do you care? Why do you care? _

Dick continues. “I was seeing a girl named Babs for a while, but we broke it off after she got into MIT and I stayed here. We’re still friends, though.”

Babs. Jason actually remembers her. He’s pretty sure that she was the valedictorian of Dick’s year, or perhaps the class speaker. One of those two things. 

“Must be nice to like your ex,” he mutters. 

“Something tells me you don’t like yours.”

“No. She’s nice.”

Dick sits up. “Then what is it?” he asks. Then he adds, “I mean. You don’t have to tell me. But you look like you want to.”

He does want to. But he doesn’t know if he can. And then he finds himself thinking about Harper, about what she said in the car._ I wouldn’t spread things like that. Or make fun of you for it. _Maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe, when people talk about safe spaces, it isn’t just talk.

Taking a deep breath, he says, “She thinks I’m gay. It’s why—it’s why I came here in the first place.”

Dick nods. “To see if she was right.”

“I’m not gay.”

“That’s fine.”

“I don’t know what I am.”

“That’s fine too.” 

“You’re not going to tell anyone, will you?”

“God no.” Dick shakes his head. “No one.”

Jason bites his tongue before he starts giving Dick too much information. Instead of talking, he sits and stares at the grass, gulping down air to push aside the tightness in his chest.

“Hey,” Dick says, wrapping an arm around him. “Some things take time. I thought I was straight until I was like, fourteen. And then I thought I was gay and that I was conditioned into liking girls. And then—you get it.”

Jason nods. He doesn’t want Dick to take his arm away. It’s such a welcome weight. But then it’s gone, and he’s alone on the ground.

“Well. We better get back to work before Tim yells at us,” Dick says.

“Yeah. Probably.”

“Jason.”

He looks up. Dick is smiling down at him, looking like a dream. 

“I enjoy talking with you,” he says, offering a hand to help him up. “I’d like to keep hanging out with you, if that’s something you’d want.”

That _ is _ something he wants, Jason realizes. Taking Dick’s hand, he stands and offers him a small smile. 

“Yeah,” he says. “That sounds cool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason is a hardcore Evanescence fan. Change my mind.
> 
> How do people write romance??? tension???? Explain please. Or just, you know, tell me what you want to see more of. That's cool too.
> 
> Since I refuse to go back to Tumblr, if you want to contact me you can send a message to morimaitar@gmail.com. I'm happy to talk about fics, answer questions, or just chat! (If you're interested in going to graduate school for writing, HMU)


	8. Someone's Boyfriend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep! This chapter is a week early! I mean, it's a certain _awareness_ week, so...
> 
> I really screwed myself over by setting this story in 2016, LMAO (kill me). The plan was to have Jason get all emotional over Todd Chavez's quote ("I think I might be nothing"), but that season of _Bojack_ didn't air until July 2016!!! Maybe I'll post a one-shot of him reacting to Todd Chavez at some point...I mean, 4x03 made me burst into tears, and I'm an emotionally constipated "adult."
> 
> Also: I did it again, folks! I completely forgot that Dawn is an actual character in the DCU! *screams* So for clarification, the Dawn here is not the Dawn there (unless you want it to be, I guess).
> 
> Anyway...
> 
> _Warnings for this chapter: internalized queerphobia, drug use_

It’s past five o’clock when they finish the clean-up. The sun has started to fall beneath the high-rise buildings in the distance, and a soft chill accompanies the end of the day. Jason wipes down the last of the tables in the Community Center and tucks the chairs back into place. Outside, he can hear Steph and Cass testing the integrity of the ramp by carrying each other up and down the platforms. 

“You didn’t have to help us clean,” Dick says, dropping a handful of Clorox wipes in the trash. 

Jason shrugs. “I like to clean. It’s calming.”

“God. I wish that were me.”

“Wait, really?” He shoots a look at Dick, at his neatly-shaven jaw and the impossible lack of grass stains and dirt on his clothes. 

Dick laughs. “Yeah man. You should see my room. I’m basically chaos incarnate.”

“I don’t believe you,” Jason replies. The guy grew up rich. Aren’t rich people supposed to be immaculate? That’s what all the TV shows tell him, anyway.

“Okay. Let me prove it. Wait just a sec,” he says, turning toward the hallway. “Tim! Buddy! Get your ass in here!”

Tim’s head appears around the corner. “What?”

“Describe my room in one word.”

“Disgusting.”

Dick turns to Jason, grinning from ear-to-ear. “See?” 

Tim rolls his eyes and throws a wad of paper towels at Dick’s head. It bounces off him and falls limply to the floor. “Wow,” he said. “This was really urgent.”

“I didn’t ask him to do that,” Jason says. “For the record.”

“Oh don’t worry. _ You’re _good.”

Dick makes a sound of mock indignation. “You’d choose him over your own _ brother_?”

“Damn straight,” Tim says.

“I prefer damn queer, actually,” Dick replies, winking. He faces Tim as he speaks, but Jason has a gut feeling that the comment was directed elsewhere. 

A rock settles in the pit of his stomach. “I should get going,” Jason says quickly, and Dick turns to look at him.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “We’re going to go get tacos. You should come!”

_ What is it with this guy and going out to eat? _ Jason wonders. Well, he _ does _ have money. If Jason had money, he’d pick up food every other day. He’d also check his mom into the best rehab facility out there, the resort kind, and when she gets out he’d move them the hell away from East End. Into a townhouse, maybe. And he wouldn’t tell Tommy a thing.

Fuck. Wouldn’t that be something.

“My mom’s waiting for me,” he says. “I can’t.”

Tim pulls a pair of car keys from his pocket and swings them around his finger. “You sure? They’re good tacos. Quick service. You could bring some home to your mom.”

Jason is about to say, _ I’m good, thanks_, when he realizes he doesn’t know what he’s saying. It’s like he’s going through the motions, giving excuses as to why he can’t do this, shouldn’t do that, doesn’t have time to do it. 

His mom isn’t waiting for him. His homework is done. What’s the worst that can happen?

But before he can talk, Dick says, “At least let us drive you back. I mean, it would be faster than a bus, and if your mom’s waiting for you...”

_ God damn it_. He really painted himself into a corner with that one, didn’t he? 

“Actually,” Jason says. “I told her I would be back by seven. And it’s only—” He checks his phone. “—five-thirty. I think I can go.”

“Sweet!” Dick grins as he grabs Jason’s arm and starts tugging him toward the door. “Kate’s in charge of lock up, so we’re good to go. Just have to let Steph and Cass know we’re going. The ramp looks good, don’t you think?”

It takes Jason a moment to realize he’s talking to him. He’s too busy focusing on how warm Dick’s hand feels around his forearm, how his thumb brushes over the top of his hand. “Um, yeah,” he stammers. “I guess.”

Dick laughs. “Aw, don’t be modest. You did a great job.”

“He’s right,” Tim adds. “No way this loser could have done it by himself.”

“Hey!”

“I’m just saying. Your talents lie elsewhere.” Turning to Jason, Tim says, “He’s more of a dancer. Nearly tried out for the Gotham Ballet Company.”

That makes sense to Jason. Though Dick is slender, he’s all muscle, and has a particular grace about him. Fuck, what he must look like in leotards…

Dick lets go of his arm. “Dude. You can’t go around telling people I’m a ballerina. Jay, I’m actually pretty cool. I promise.”

“Technically the term is _ ballerino_,” Tim says, but Jason isn’t listening.

“Did you just call me ‘Jay’?” he asks.

Dick blushes. “Whoops. I, uh… Sorry.”

“Actually, I kinda like it,” Jason says, and Dick’s blush deepens. Strange. He didn’t think that Dick could be embarrassed. It seemed like he was the kind of guy to wipe everything away with a grin. _ How does that saying go? _ Right. Like water off a duck’s back.

“You do?”

“Yeah. I haven’t had a nickname in forever. Not since my dad—” Jason stops abruptly. _ Not since my dad got locked up. _ Shit. He just _ had _to go and ruin it for himself, didn’t he.

Tim looks at him. “Not since when?”

“Um.” Fuck. If he tells them...he can’t tell them. When Grant found out, he had a new question every minute. _ What did he do? Did he hurt you? Did he kill someone? Do you miss him? Did he teach you how to pick locks, or steal cars, or shoot guns? Have you visited him in prison? What’s it like, being the son of a thief? _

“Can’t remember,” Jason finishes. He takes a deep breath of cool evening breeze. In April, the air in Gotham tastes fresher, less like oil and pollution. Maybe it has something to do with all the rain. Turning to Dick, he asks, “Were you really a ballerina?”

“Well, I was an acrobat, before…” He pauses. “Before I met Bruce. But there aren’t a lot of places to practice trapeze artistry, you know? I did gymnastics for a while, and then Babs and I went to a ballet, and she said, _ you could do this_, so...” Dick shrugs.

“So you did it.”

“Only once.”

“_ Only once_.” Tim laughs. “Yeah. If ‘once’ counts as twelve months of practice.”

“Shut up, twerp.”

“Make me, stupid.”

“I like ballet,” Jason interjects. He doesn’t know why he says this; the closest he’s come to seeing a performance was watching _ Black Swan_. Until a minute ago, he didn’t even know that Gotham _ had _a ballet company. But lying about ballet was better than lying about his parents.

Dick raises an eyebrow. “You do?”

Jason shrugs.

“Well, in that case, you should know that I played Bluebird in an amateur production of _ Sleeping Beauty_.”

“Congratulations,” he replies, and Dick laughs.

“You don’t know what I’m talking about,” he says, his eyes bright and playful. “That’s fine. Here.” He whips out his phone and searches for something before holding it out to Jason. It’s a YouTube video of a man in a blue costume, fluttering around a stage not unlike a bird. Everything about him is enchanting, from the way he points his toes to the lively look on his face. Fuck. It’s _ beautiful. _

“That’s not me, obviously,” Dick says. “That’s Alexander Campbell. A _ legend. _”

“Cool,” Jason says, because that’s all he _ can _say. He’s too busy imagining Dick in that costume, watching him dance across a stage as if carried by wings. 

_ Nope. Bad idea. Stop it. _

“What’cha guys watching?” someone asks. He looks up and sees that it’s Steph, who’s still carrying Cass on her back.

“Just Dick’s ballet boyfriend,” Tim explains. “You guys headed out?”

“Ah yes. Alexander.” Steph smiles. “And yeah. We’re gonna go see a movie—the Disney one. With the animals.”

“_ Jungle Book_,” Cass says. She speaks softly, but it’s the kind of softness that’s filled with intelligence. 

“Right! _ Jungle Book_. I mean, Disney is a soulless corporation. But this one looks fun.”

Cass releases her arms from Steph’s neck and steps down to the ground. “We might be late,” she says, tapping her wrist.

“Oh yeah. We better go. Catch you guys later. Nice seeing you again, Jason.”

“Bye,” Jason mumbles, but they’re already running off. 

Tim starts running too, but in the opposite direction. He stops by a car that Jason recognizes as Dick’s, and jumps into the driver’s seat. Dick starts to say something, but is cut off by his brother’s cry of _ please please please? _

“Alright, alright. Whatever,” Dick says.

Jason gives him a look: _ explain? _

“Tim just got his learner’s permit. And because I turned twenty-one in March, I guess that makes me a ‘qualified adult driver,’ whatever that means.”

_ Twenty-one_. Right. For a moment, Jason had forgotten that Dick was already in college and living on his own in Burnley. He wonders if Dick uses his age to get legally fucked-up on beer or vodka or whatever. Probably not. Boy Wonder over here has the easiest fucking life. 

As Dick slides into the back seat with him, Jason realizes that, despite working outside all afternoon, he even _ smells _good. Like citrus and honey. And here Jason is, smelling like grass and dirt. Nice.

After they get to the taqueria, a tiny building with a sign that says, _ El Tesoro_, Tim tosses the car keys back to Dick. 

“Told you I’d get us here alive,” he says.

“Sure.” Dick rolls his eyes. “But it took half an hour.”

“I drove the speed limit.”

“That’s what I mean. Who drives at the speed limit? And who stops at _ yellow lights_?”

Jason hangs back and watches them interact as they walk inside. It reads like a fight, their exchange, but he has the distinct feeling that nothing they say is meant to hurt. Instead, the whole thing feels like an act of love, of familial intimacy. 

Before he can stop himself, he thinks of the things Isabel used to say: _ oh my god, you’re such an idiot_, or, _ no one knows how to ruin a mood like you, Jason. _When she said them, she was smiling, and he was too. But now the words leave him feeling empty. 

The inside of the taqueria is warm and colorful. Paper flags are strung across the ceiling, and the surface of the tables are wrought in geometric tile. On the walls, two televisions display the same game of soccer. Jason stands and watches them until Dick thrusts the menu into his hands. 

“The carne asada plate is really good,” he says, “if you like that sort of thing.”

Jason nods, looking over the menu. The prices are reasonable, which is good. Barely anything’s over ten dollars, and the things that are aren’t anything he’d want anyway. Maybe he’ll be able to bring something back for his mom.

Dick grins at him. “Oh, and I’m paying. Shush!” He places a finger over Jason’s lips before a protest can escape them. “This is non-negotiable. You were a huge help today.”

_ Great. _Now he’s a fucking charity case again. “I don’t know if you remember,” Jason says, “but I was only there because you—you know. Helped me out.”

“Okay. Consider this a gift, then.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you, buddy,” Dick says, laughing. Before Jason can say anything else, he adds, “Seriously. Get the carne asada. Or the carnitas.”

Jason blushes into the laminated paper. _ Because I like you_. He knows that Dick meant it in the friendly way—which is good, because he doesn’t _ want _him to mean it in the other way. All he wants is a carne asada super burrito with pinto beans and no sour cream. That sounds good. He should think about that instead.

After they’ve ordered, Jason slides into one of the colorful booths across from the brothers. He wonders if he should have put up a bigger fight about the bill, but he also knows that it would have been pointless. A burrito is eight dollars, and they’re set to inherit millions. 

“So. No sour cream?” Tim asks him.

“Don’t like it.”

Dick waves a tortilla chip in the air. “Is it a lactose thing?” he asks.

“I just don’t like it. Damn.”

“Hey now. This isn’t an interrogation.”

Tim nods. “If it were, we’d be more subtle about it.”

“Yeah. He’d never tell you this, but Tim here’s a freaking genius,” Dick explains.

“_ Dude! _” Tim hisses. 

“No, I’m serious! He’s top of his class at Brentwood, and won an award for a paper on an Agatha Christie book.”

“Which Agatha Christie?” Jason asks, suddenly more invested in the conversation. He’s read a handful of her books and loved all of them. Talk about a master of mystery. 

“_The Mousetrap_. But seriously, it was no big deal,” Tim says, sending a pointed look at his brother. “It was a contest for Agatha Christie papers. Only like, ten people enter each year.”

Dick grins. “But they liked _ you _ best.”

“_The Mousetrap? _ I like that one,” Jason says. “Maybe one day I’ll get to see the staged version.”

“Oh, fuck yes,” Tim laughs. “Who’s your favorite character?”

“That youngish guy. Um, Chris… Christopher Wren, right?”

“Oh yeah. Him. I’m a Miss Casewell fan myself, but Christpher Wren is pretty gay too.”

_ What the fuck? _Jason nearly chokes on a tortilla chip. “I don’t—what?”

“Remember? He says that he’s attracted to men in uniform. I totally get why you’d—”

Dick clears his throat loudly and shoots a look at Tim, who quiets. “I don’t understand a word you guys are saying,” he says. “So I’m gonna make an executive decision to change topics.”

“Yes,” Jason replies, perhaps a little too quickly.

At the counter, the woman calls out for number eighty-two. Dick looks down at the receipt, then slides out of the bench. “Pick out a topic. I’ll be right back.”

“Let me help you!” Jason jumps to his feet, knocking his knees against the table. Pain flares up his legs. _ Fuck. _He sits back down before they can buckle beneath him. 

Dick laughs. “Dude. It’s one tray. Nothing to hurt yourself over.”

Jason mumbles something about not being hurt as Dick goes and grabs the food. He can feel Tim staring at him from the other side of the table. So many questions race through him. How much does Tim know? Does he think that he’s dating Dick? Does he think that they _ should _start dating? Why did he bring up that thing about the characters being gay? What was that look that Dick gave him? What is even happening?

“You have a scratch on your neck,” Tim says.

“What?”

He draws a finger over the front of his neck, making a motion strangely close to _ you’re dead_. “Here.”

“Oh. Right. Shaving accident,” Jason lies, trying not to think about Tommy, or his mom. 

“Some accident.”

“Yeah,” Jason replies. “I’ve been using an electric razor ever since.”

With that they settle back into silence, letting the sounds of Latin music fill the space between them. Then Dick’s back at the table, dropping plates of food in front of them. 

“What’d you guys choose?” he asks.

“Give us a topic, Jason,” Tim says.

Jason shrugs, peeling back the tin foil of his burrito. “I’m just hungry, to be honest.”

“Food!” Dick smiles. “Great topic. Was I right about the carne asada or what?”

Mouth full, all Jason can do is nod. “Yeah,” he says, swallowing. “God damn. Puts fucking Chipotle to shame.”

“I know. It’s so nice coming here with someone who doesn’t shame me for eating meat.”

“What does that mean?”

“Our little brother is a vegetarian,” Tim says. “_ And _he has a cow.”

Jason pauses. “Wait. You have a little brother?”

The two of them look at each other, then burst out laughing. “You ask about our brother,” Dick snorts, “but not the cow?”

“I—”

“No, no. It’s fine. Damian is Bruce’s son. He’s younger than us—”

“Thirteen,” Tim adds.

“Yeah, thirteen. He’s a real character. You should meet him sometime.”

_ A real character. _Jason can tell from the tone of Dick’s voice that his brother is being diplomatic. Whatever. He already knows two members of the Wayne family; any more and he’d feel like he was marrying into it. 

Fuck. Why’d he have to think of that? There were so many other options to choose from. 

“And you said he’s a vegetarian?” Jason asks, just to say something.

“I mean,” Dick says, “I don’t have anything against vegetarians.”

Tim wags a fork at his brother. “Kon’s thinking about becoming one. I keep telling him that he’ll never make it a week, but I’ll support him anyway.”

“Kon?” Jason asks.

“My boyfriend. He’s from Metropolis.”

_ Of course. _Before he can stop himself, Jason asks, “Is anyone in your family straight?”

Immediately after the words leave his mouth, his entire face burns. Fuck. What was that? Why the fuck did he think that was an okay thing to ask? They’re going to fucking tear him apart. 

But they don’t. Instead, they’re laughing again. And it’s not even cruel. Their laughter is genuine.

“I mean, _ we’re _not,” Dick says.

Tim nods. “And Dami’s probably asexual. Either that, or he’s a real misanthrope.”

“He loves animals, though.”

“Oh yeah. He loves his pets. Gets a new one every week, I swear...”

Dick looks at him, his eyes bright. “Do you have any pets, Jason?”

But Jason is still catching up on the first part of the conversation. He stares at the wall of the taqueria, frowning. “What did you call him?” he asks softly. “Your brother, I mean.”

Tim shoots him a look. “Dami?”

“No, not his name. You said that he’s a-sexual?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Like that guy from _ Archie_,” Dick says. 

“That spy cartoon?”

Dick shakes his head. “No, that’s _ Archer. Archie _ is a comic book. But _ Archer’s _good too.”

“Never read it,” Jason says. “And I’ve only seen a few episodes of _ Archer _. I don’t know. It was…I couldn’t get over the whole ‘uncanny valley’ thing.”

“Aw man.” Dick shakes his head. “You’re missing out. I love the _ Jughead _ comics. And _ Archer_.”

“You don’t let me watch it,” Tim says.

“That’s because you’re a baby. He’s an adult.”

“Oh, so he _ is _ over eighteen?”

“Shut up,” Dick hisses, then laughs uncomfortably. “But seriously Jason. Read it, and text me your feelings.”

“I’m not going to text you my feelings,” Jason says.

“But you _ will _ read it?” 

He shrugs. “Sure. Okay. Whatever.”

“And if you don’t watch _ Archer_, at least watch _ American Horror Story_. And _ Bojack Horseman_.”

“Stop before you leave him with a goddamn list,” Tim says. “We’re in high school. We have _ homework_.”

Dick leans back in the booth, waving his brother off as he winks at Jason. _ I’ll text you_, he mouths, and Jason aches to hide under the table and scream. Scream in confusion. Scream in frustration. Scream in embarrassment. Scream in concern. He doesn’t know. All he can think about is Dick’s smile, and Christopher Wren, and Tim, and Dick, and their brother, who might be asexual, whatever that means.

Jason remains suspended in this state until a little after seven, when Dick drops him off in front of his apartment and waits for him to open the door before driving away. And then it’s all over, and he can breathe again.

Except he can’t. His mom is sitting on the floor of the kitchen, staring intently at a jar of tomato sauce. “I don’t know what this is,” she mumbles as he approaches.

“That’s tomato sauce, Mom,” he replies, taking it from her hands. She keeps her palms open as if it were still there. “Like, for pasta.”

“Pasta,” she echoes.

_ Christ. _ She’s really zonked out of her mind.

“Did you eat?” he asks.

She shakes her head. 

“Alright. I’m gonna make you a PB&J. Sound good?”

His mom hums, which he takes as a yes. As he throws together a sandwich, she asks, “Where were you?”

“Out. I told you this morning. I was working on a project.”

“At work?”

“With a guy I know,” Jason says, handing her the sandwich and a napkin. “He told me to watch something, so I’m gonna go do that. Okay?”

She nods, and starts poking at the bread. He watches her for a moment, and when he’s sure that she’ll figure things out, he takes it as the sign that he can leave. 

Once he’s showered, he lies down on top of his bed and thinks about watching _ American Horror Story_, just so he’d have something else to talk about with Dick. Something that would keep the conversation away from other things, like pretty _ ballerinos _ and his big gay family. Sure, he’d have to make _ another _ fake email to get _ another _ free trial from Netflix, but that takes what? Five minutes? 

But he doesn’t do that. Instead, he picks up his phone and searches for _ Archie comics asexual character_. He doesn’t know why he does this. Maybe because he wants to; maybe because it seems like the easier thing to do. 

Okay, so it’s this guy, Jughead. Didn’t Dick saying that name at some point? Doesn’t matter. Jason scrolls through a few articles, kind-of reading, but mostly listening to make sure he can still hear his mom moving around the apartment. And then something catches his eye:

_ ...that he is, in fact, asexual. In other words, he’s a person who isn’t sexually attracted to other people—a kind of sexual identity that’s rarely depicted in popular fiction. _

He pauses. _ Wait, what? _

Somewhere deep inside of him, a voice replies: _ that feels right. That’s you. _

But it can’t be. That has to be a made-up thing. After all, he’s only just heard about it, and nobody mentioned _ asexual _ when they talk about _ gay _ or _ straight _ or _ bi _ or _ trans_. Right? Right? 

Besides, he’s had sex. Multiple times. And yeah, maybe it didn’t leave him with the best feelings, but he sometimes enjoyed the physicality of it. Not to mention the fact that he _ liked _ Isabel. He _ liked _ being her boyfriend. Maybe someday in the future, if all of this gets sorted out, he’ll like being someone else’s boyfriend. 

The voice comes back. _ Maybe even _ Dick’s _ boyfriend_.

Nope. Jason closes the page of his browser and deletes his internet history. As quick as he can, he signs up for a new Netflix trial and starts watching _ American Horror Story_. The scares wash over him, but do little to calm the thoughts sprinting through his mind.

_ Tomorrow it will be better_, he reminds himself. Each second puts more distance between him and the voice. Maybe in a day or two, he can think about it without wanting to curl up into a ball and scream into his pillow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to see the video Dick shows Jason, it's [THIS ONE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BZe0TFU75rI). I really lucked out with the Bluebird thing. This guy is basically Dick Grayson.
> 
> Anyway... Ask me questions! Make suggestions! I aim to please!
> 
> And as a heads up: I will be working on my thesis for Nanowrimo, which means that my fics are going on hold for a month. But! I'll post some of the chapters here so y'all can read my original YA fiction. Either way, you can check out the details of my project [HERE](https://www.nanowrimo.org/participants/morimaitar/projects/deadrock) (you're gonna need a Nanowrimo account to view).


	9. Running Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry the update took so long - things should be back on schedule from now on. Expect an update on _Chosen Son_ next week!
> 
> Not a lot of JayDick in this chapter (so sorry!) but I'm trying to set up some things for later??? They'll pay off, trust me. 
> 
> _Warnings for this chapter include: suicidal ideation, homophobia_

On Monday he can’t think right. In class he sits at the edge of his seat, waiting for someone to take one look at him and send him to the school counselor, _ Jason Todd to Ms. Summers’ office, Jason Todd to Ms. Summers’ office _. But nothing comes. All he can do is stare at the clock, urging it to go faster, impossibly fast, until he’s suddenly old and out of school and maybe even dead. You don’t have any problems when you’re dead.

“Jason!” 

His head snaps up. “What?” he asks, and the class snickers. 

_ Oh shit they know. They see right through me. I want to die. _

Mr. Townsend sighs. On the board, there’s some math equation about _ f′(x) _. “Jason,” he says, “can you tell us the answer?”

“Um, two?”

“Lucky,” his teacher says, and Jason breathes a sigh of relief. 

Focus. He needs to focus. 

Jason pours all of himself into his work, paying attention only to the numbers, the equations, the conjugated verbs. _ Luis no irá al aeropuerto si llueve. Creo que todas las escuelas deberían ofrecer arte. No se si soy heterosexual _.

Whoops.

As he erases that last sentence, he realizes that his hands are trembling. There is an ache in his stomach that will not go away, as well as a coldness in his extremities and in his chest. He can’t think right, like no matter how much he looks at the Spanish worksheet in front of him the words don’t want to make sense. 

The last time he felt like this, he was thirteen and had just found his mother on the floor of their bathroom. Her breaths were thin and ragged, and her needle empty. It was only five minutes before a neighbor heard his screams, but in his head each second was an eternity; a limbo. For five years he’s drowned out that kind of terror. And now it’s come crashing back in, fresh as ever.

_ I need to get out of here, _he thinks. 

When the bell finally rings for lunch, he practically runs out of the classroom, heart fluttering in his chest. Every time he blinks he sees Dick’s face behind his eyelids, his pretty smile, his deep blue irises. It only makes him sicker.

One wrong turn, and he’s in front of half the soccer team. Jason aches to shrivel like a slug in the sun. At least Grant isn’t with them. 

Virgil looks surprised. “Hey man,” he says, “you okay?”

“You look…” Richie doesn’t finish that statement. They all know how he looks.

“I’m fine,” Jason stammers. “You haven’t seen Grant, have you?”

“Grant? He was in Econ, why?” Virgil says.

“Did he look mad?” 

“Kinda. Did you guys—”

“Nevermind,” Jason says quickly. “See you later, okay?”

They mumble some goodbyes, and he takes off again, looking for people he knows he can talk to. At least, he thinks he can talk to them. They haven’t said anything yet.

Kyle and Harper are sitting with Cullen on the stairs in Building D, their legs dangling between the bars of the rails as they talk about some homework assignment. Jason stands awkwardly at the foot of the stairs, watching Harper put something together on her lap. It looks like it’s made of LEGO, but it’s covered in wires like some sort of robot.

Cullen looks over at him. “Can I help you?” he asks. 

Harper flicks her brother’s ear. “Don’t be rude,” she says. “What’s up, Todd?”

“I thought I told you that was my last name.”

“You did.”

Jason grunts, and sits down next to them. “Uh uh,” he says, cutting off Kyle before he can open his mouth. “I just—I need to be with people who don’t care about me.”

Kyle rolls his eyes. “That’s a pretty big assumption, don’t you think?” 

“You’re the one who calls me Nobody.” 

“It’s a joke.” 

Jason shrugs, peeling back the foil of a protein bar. “Was it?” he asks, watching Cullen watching him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Cullen says. “I just thought—I mean, you kinda look like—”

“An asshole. A dumb jock. A rat bastard. Believe me,” Jason says, staring at the holes in his jeans. _ Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. _ “I know.” Coughing, he blinks away his thoughts. “Anyway, if you guys see Grant, don’t tell him I’m here.”

“Grant, your asshole friend from Econ?” Kyle asks.

“Yeah,” Jason mutters. “My asshole friend.”

“Oof. You want to talk about it?”

“No, not really.” Coughing, Jason looks over at Harper’s robot. “What’re you making?”

“Oh, this?” She holds it up, only to flip it over and start poking at the underbelly. “This is just for funsies.”

“It’s a knife bot,” Cullen says. “We’re gonna give it a switchblade and set it loose in our apartment.”

Jason asks “why?” just as Harper tells Cullen to shut up. Laughing, she adds, “I’m trying to make a mini tank.”

“How is that better?” Kyle asks.

“It won’t cut our ankles.” 

Kyle shoots Jason a look: _ I don’t understand, either. _“Anyway,” he says, “how was that project you did yesterday?”

“Project? What project?” Cullen asks.

“Nothing, it was fine,” Jason says quickly. 

Harper puts down the robot. “You do some good for the community?”

“I just helped Dick build a temporary ramp. That’s all.”

“Right. Dick. Pretty cool guy, huh?”

_ They know. They see right through you. _

Jason doesn’t say anything, and instead focuses on the fake plants at the foot of the staircase. Then he realizes that silence is probably the worst thing he can give, so he clears his throat and shrugs. “I guess,” he mutters.

“And so handsome, too,” Cullen says. “Ugh. I mean, those _ eyes _.”

“Really?” Harper asks. “What happened to ‘Oh my god, Tim Drake is so hot, blah blah blah, Tim Drake?’” 

“Everyone knows that he’s dating a kid from Metropolis. Don’t you read the _ Gotham Gazette_?”

“I don’t want you interested in Dick,” Harper says. “You’re fourteen, and he’s—”

“He turned twenty-one in March,” Jason interjects. When they all look at him, he scowls into the neck of his hoodie. It’s stupid. The whole thing’s stupid. Dick is twenty-one, and he’s only eighteen, and that’s weird. That’s _ weird _ . Maybe he doesn’t _ actually _ like Dick, maybe he’s just jealous or indebted or experiencing some weird Freudian thing. _ He’s nice to me, so I must like Dick _. 

_ God _ , he thinks, _ that sounds so weird. _

But maybe he does like Dick. And if—if!—that is the case, is that really a bad thing? It’s not like they’re living in Victorian times or some shit. People are openly gay now, especially in big metropolitan areas like Gotham. Hell, Harper wears like four flags on her vest. And besides, it’s not like Jason has to _ do _ anything about it. He can just leave for college, get a degree in _ something _ , get a job, retire, and die alone because no one wants a partner who isn’t interested in sex. And that’s fine. It’s fine. It _ has _to be fine, because it’s the way things are.

When Kyle starts talking again, Jason lets the conversation continue on without him. It’s not like he was here to talk, anyway, right? He just needed to get away and forget everything to do with Dick.

Except, when his phone buzzes, he can’t stop the excitement from bursting in his chest. 

_ Tim’s doing a movie night thing this Friday. Wanna come? _

Well. _ That _ makes things more difficult. Jason’s fingers hover over his phone, torn. At last, he writes, _ I’d like to, but think I might have to work. _

_ Lol I’m working too. I can pick you up after! Just send me the deets :) _

God damn it. Sighing, Jason sends him a thumbs-up. He can always come up with a better excuse later. Or maybe he can go and have fun. After all, Dick _ is _really nice. And cool. And handsome.

Then Cullen leans back and pokes him in the knee. “Something funny?” he asks. 

“Huh?”

“You’re smiling.”

“Oh.” Jason feels his grin fall to the ugly blue carpet. “It’s nothing.”

“You know,” Cullen says, his voice dropping to a whisper, “I’m not really interested in Dick. Don’t worry.”

“Why would I worry?” 

“Because you like him, right?” When Jason doesn’t say anything, Cullen continues. “I mean, _ he turned twenty-one in March? _ You sound like a Harry Styles fangirl.” 

“He mentioned it literally yesterday.”

There is an ugly pause. Then Cullen nods. “Oh, I get it,” he says. “You’re going for that ‘big-angry-closeted-jock’ look.”

Jason feels his cheeks flush red. He laughs, but there is no humor in it. “What the fuck?” 

“Hey. I’m just saying, I’ve read a million YA books about you. Ever read _ The Vast Fields of Ordinary? _”

“No?”

“Then don’t. It’s not that good.”

“You know what?” Jason runs his hands over his face, sighing, thinking. “I really don’t care about bad young adult books. And if I were...what you say I am...don’t you think I’d be avoiding the staircase full of—” 

“Staircase full of queers?” Cullen offers. That’s when the other two start paying attention.

“Is Cullen being a booger again?” Harper asks.

“No! I mean, no.”

“Cullen, stop harassing Nobody,” Kyle says, winking at Jason.

Oh god. This was a mistake. Jason feels the nausea rising in his chest again, and he has to hold on to the railing to keep himself steady. When is the fucking bell going to ring?

“Look,” he says, climbing to his feet. “I’m gonna go drop some shit off in my locker. Thanks for letting me sit here.”

Cullen waves. “Say hi to Dick for me,” he says, winking.

Jason looks at Harper and shakes his head: _ I’m not going to do that. _ Then he waves once, and walks away. As he pulls his hood over his head, the voices scoff at him. _ You’re a freak, _ they say. _ You’re such a freak you don’t even fit in with the other freaks_.

At least in A.P. Lit he can do something he’s good at: practice essays. Jason likes talking about texts, reading into them. Maybe he can get a degree in literature. Then it wouldn’t seem weird when he’s eighty years-old and single. 

_ It has often been said that what we value can be determined only by what we sacrifice. Consider how this statement applies to a character from a novel or play. _

Easy. Dorian Gray, ever the hedonist, sacrificed his soul for eternal beauty. 

They have all class period to write the essay, but Jason finishes in twenty minutes. He sits at his desk for a minute and glances back to look at Kyle, who keeps scribbling something down and erasing it. For a moment he considers reading more of _A Separate Peace_, but when he pulls out the book, the words don’t stick in his mind. He only thinks about sacrifice and selling his soul.

_ What would I sacrifice my soul for? _

The chance to be happy. The chance to feel normal. The ability to stop caring. Someone who understands me. Knowing what I am and being okay with it. Erasing the last few months. Getting into Princeton with a full scholarship. Getting rid of Tommy. Sending Mom to rehab. Being happy that Dick wants to hang out with me.

When the last bell rings, Jason hands in his essay, hoping that he never has to write about Dorian Gray again. It’s the last hope he has for a while.

He’s hardly put his books into his locker when someone grabs him and shoves him against the row.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Grant hisses. 

Jason pushes him away, eyeing the crowd of people who have stopped to stare at them. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I talked to Isabel.”

Something knocks the air from his lungs. Jason tries to open his mouth, tries to force out something intelligent, but all he can do is glare and say, “Okay, and?”

“She told me.”

Jason rolls his eyes instinctively. “What do you think I am, a mind reader or something?”

“No, I think you’re gay.”

It’s as if his body shuts down. “What.”

“Isabel told me that you guys broke up because you’re gay.”

“Oh shit,” someone whispers. 

Jason regains control of himself just long enough to flip them off, thinking _ fuck you _ . It’s enough that he has to deal with himself, he can’t spare the time to deal with more than that. “You’re crazy. _ She’s _ crazy,” he says quickly. “You know, ex-girlfriends are shit.”

“Really? Because last I heard you liked her.”

“Ah yes.” Jason laughs, and it feels _ so good _to laugh, to release the tension pulling his muscles tight. “Because gay men usually like women.”

“I meant, as a _ friend_, dipshit.”

“Whatever.” Jason pushes Grant to the side and steps away, face heating even though the air is cold. _ Just two more months, _ he reminds himself. _ Two more months, then it’s off to the College of New Jersey or whatever. Goodbye Gotham. Hello crippling debt. _

A strong tug on his bag pulls him backwards. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Grant asks. He would look concerned if he didn’t look so angry. God, Jason wants to hit him.

“I didn’t tell you because I’m not..._ that_,” Jason finishes, keenly aware of the eyes on their faces. Why are they listening anyway? Why couldn’t Grant wait until later? Was he trying to be as obvious as possible, or does he not even realize how shitty he’s being?

Grant shakes his head. “I don’t believe you.”

Jason grits his teeth as he asks, “Why not?”

“Because you’re…” He motions vaguely and, finally, his voice drops to a level only Jason can hear. “...You’re not interested in girls. Like, at all.” 

“That’s not true.” 

“Uh huh. So you enjoyed sleeping with that girl at the party?”

Jason’s blood runs cold. “Excuse me?” he says.

“The girl. The hot girl you slept with.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Straight guys enjoy fucking hot girls.” 

“Yeah, unless they—” Jason bites his tongue. He can’t say it. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t—

“Unless they’re secretly gay, right? Just say it. I wouldn’t care if—”

The words come out before he can stop them. “Unless the guy was drunk and didn’t really want to.”

“We were _ all _drunk. Just because you were too—”

Jason shoves him into a crowd of freshman. “_ Shut the fuck up! _” 

To his left, he can hear someone say, “Call Mr. Brennan.” But he’s too busy being pushed into the lockers to care. The back of his skull lights up in pain.

“You’re such a liar, Todd,” Grant snarls, pressing him harder into the hard metal. 

“I’m not! Get off of me!”

“Oh, you’re not? ‘Cause we all know your mom doesn’t really have cancer. What is she, a crack whore? Is she even alive?”

All Jason sees is red. He doesn’t even know how much time he lost. It must have been a few seconds, because when he comes to, Grant is on the tile floor, clutching his nose as blood seeps between his fingers. He seems too disoriented to talk, so Jason does it for him.

“Fuck. You,” he snarls. Grabbing his bag from the floor, he storms down the hallway. Behind him, he can hear Grant yelling at him to suck a cock, but his head is storming too much for him to really process it. 

_ Kill me_, he begs no one in particular. _ Kill me. Kill me. Let me die. _

Stupid Grant. Stupid Isabel. She promised—she _ promised_—but then she went and told Grant anyway. And it’s not even true. Just because he thinks Dick is handsome—no, beautiful—and just because he wouldn’t mind hanging out with Dick, and maybe even one day possibly being more than just his friend—

Oh. Oh fuck.

Jason starts to run. He runs past the school gates and down the road, not caring when the wind whips his face and his eyes begin to water. But no matter how fast he runs, he cannot outrace the turbulent thoughts in his head. 

_ You like Dick, and that’s okay. _

_ Yeah, go suck a dick, freak. _

_ Fucking homo. _

_ You’re Jason Todd, and you like boys. _

_ Yeah, _ everyone _ knows you like boys. _

_ Why don’t you just die already? _

_ You can talk to Harper. Or Kyle. Or Dick. _

_ Big, angry, closeted jock. _

_ Tommy will kill you. _

_ No one actually cares. What’s the big deal? _

_ Just die already. _

_ Yeah, just die already. _

Something catches his boot, and Jason flies forward. He lands with a thud on the sidewalk, his palms scraping across the ground as he comes to a halt. When he holds them up, they’re raw and stinging, oozing blood and dirt down his wrists. His left knee isn’t much better. The denim ripped wide open. 

A car honks at him. He looks up and sees that he is half an inch from the city streets, where a black sedan is stopped next to him. The driver peers through the window with a look of concern on her face. When Jason gives her a hesitant thumbs-up, she drives away. 

_ Fuck _, his hands hurt. He tries to pick out the pieces of rock stuck in his palms, but the smallest poke brings stars to his vision. And when he stands, his legs feel like jelly. 

He doesn’t know what to do. What he _ should _ do is go back to school, tell the dean what happened before he’s given a suspension, and go to soccer practice. What he wants to do is go home, crawl into bed, and scroll through the Rainbow Youth Facebook page until he falls asleep. But what he _ can _ do is stare at the beads of blood pushing through his skin. 

_ I need to clean them _, he thinks. Infection is an ugly way to die.

The street signs tell him he’s at the intersection of Virginia and 11th. Authority Construction is two blocks over. They’re closer than his apartment, and their First Aid kit is better than his anyway. 

When he pushes through the gate, Lucas sees him immediately. 

“Wait. You’re not working today,” he says, checking his clipboard. Then he spots the blood. “Oh shit. Oh _ shit _. Who the fuck tore you open?”

“The pavement. I could use a band-aid.”

“Damn right. Go wash your hands. With soap.” 

The water stings. Jason grits his teeth as it runs over his skin, washing the dirt and blood from his palms. As he pats them dry with a paper towel, Lucas calls him over to the first-aid box, holding up a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He doesn’t hand it over when Jason asks.

“It’s cool,” Jason says. “I got it.”

“Like hell you do. No way you can hold anything with those palms. Hands out.”

Jason keeps a blank face as the liquid bubbles over the cuts, and again when Lucas wraps his palms in gauze. “Thanks,” he mumbles. 

“No problem. You should have seen shit I did to myself when I was your age.” Lucas laughs as he ties the gauze into a knot. “How’d you fall, anyway?”

“I was running.” 

“Uh huh. Why?”

“No reason.”

“That bruise on your face is clearing up.”

“No one pushed me,” Jason says quickly. “Actually, I...I hit someone. Needed to get out of there, you know?”

“You aim for the nose?” Lucas asks.

“Yep.”

“Nice.” His boss stares at him for a moment, head cocked like a dog. “Were you crying?”

Jason wipes at his face, and his hands come back dry. Tricky bastard. “No,” he says flatly. “And shouldn’t you be, you know, working?” 

“Nah. Cash can take care of it. Right, Cash?”

Cash walks by them, carrying a drill. “Fuck you, Trent.”

Lucas grins. “See?”

“Uh huh.” 

“So why’d you hit this guy anyway?”

Jason lets out an exasperated sigh. “Long story. You wouldn’t care.”

“Try me,” Lucas says. “I like drama.”

“Right.” Jason laughs bitterly. Well, he wanted to stop caring. Might as well get some practice. “He tried to—I don’t know, _ out _me, I guess?—to the rest of the school, then he insulted my mom, so I hit him. Happy?”

“Damn.” His boss whistles. “Andrew will love that one.”

“Who’s Andrew?”

“My boyfriend.”

Jason pauses. Then he says, “You’re serious.”

“Yep.” Lucas winks, and stands, patting Jason on the back. “Want a coffee?”

“Um...no thanks?” 

“Cool. In that case, you can either get out of here or put on a fucking hardhat.”

Jason smiles despite himself, and grabs a hardhat from a peg above him. “I’ll just do my homework here, if that’s cool.” 

“Cool. I’m gonna go make sure Cash doesn’t fuck shit up. Give me a heads-up before you leave.”

“Will do.”

“And Jason?”

“What?”

“Until your hands feel better, kick, don’t punch.” 

Jason gives him a thumbs up. He waits for Lucas walk over to the others before he pulls his legs into his chest and blinks away tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not apologize for my opinions on pop culture.
> 
> Because their civilian names are, like, _never_ used:  
**Lucas Trent = Midnighter**  
**Andrew Pulaski = Apollo**
> 
> Give me your suggestions & wishes! I aim to please :)


	10. Burger Bar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A JayDick _and_ Midpollo chapter? Must be a gift-giving holiday or something.
> 
> (Apologies in advance for my attempt at writing romantic attraction)

The last time he skipped school, he had been fourteen and dying. Well. Not _ dying_, but close to it. Meningitis is a bitch. Jason had it all: nausea, headaches, fever, exhaustion. Whenever someone slammed a door or shouted his name, he could _ see _the sound. Low-pitched noises were rich, swirling colors, while high-pitched ones were fierce and blinding. By the time his Mom came around enough to drive him to the clinic, he had already missed three days of school. Once he had the diagnosis he didn’t feel too guilty. It’s quite contagious, especially for poor, underfed fourteen-year-olds like him. 

This time, he doesn’t have a guilt-free excuse. He’s not sick—not physically, anyway—he isn’t attending a funeral, and god knows he isn’t going on vacation. He just _ can’t _. 

Instead, he spends the day cleaning his apartment, reading, and refreshing his email. Princeton should be contacting him soon, right? Acceptances were supposed to be sent out in late March, which was over a week ago. And if they wanted to reject him, why don’t they do it already? Just get it over with. Rip off the bandaid. 

_ Fuck it_, he thinks, putting on his work boots. If they don’t want him, fine. It’s not like anyone else does. They’ll just be another in a long line of people, places, institutions that think he’s hardly worth the effort. 

As he walks to the bus stop, he wonders if he should just stop caring. That would certainly make everything easier. Or even better: he could show them all wrong, out of spite. You thought I’d amount to nothing? Look at me now! 

God, wouldn’t that be nice. 

The bus ride is quiet. He starts a new book, _ The Light Between Oceans_, and thinks about the color of water. Rolling ocean waves have nothing on Dick’s eyes. Not bright enough, not blue enough. How could life be so unfair, that one person is handsome and funny and loved, and another is Jason. 

The automated voice sounds overhead. “_Fifty-first and Virginia._”

He reaches over to pull the line, lighting up the STOP REQUESTED sign without looking up from his book. Maybe Dick would like this book. He would probably like the drama of it all, even if it was, ostensibly, about a straight couple and their baby troubles. Though, on the other hand, Dick doesn’t really strike him as someone who likes literary realism. Which isn’t bad—and it’s not like Jason cares, at all—but maybe he shouldn’t tell him about it anyway, and—he should stop thinking about Dick.

For a while, he does. While at work, Jason doesn’t think about anything but the tasks before him. It’s surprisingly easy, especially given the..._ thing _he knows about Lucas. Who would have thought that he—well, it’s not like people like him can’t be gay—is that why Lucas hired him in the first place? Does he see himself in Jason? Is gaydar a real thing?

Whoops. He’s thinking again.

After work, he hangs up his equipment and regrets skipping school. What if they covered something important in calculus or econ? What if there was a pop quiz in Spanish? Is this going to go on his permanent record? Jason knows it won’t—he _ knows _this—but everyone is always looking for an excuse to see him as the idiot burnout. Why should his school be any different?

His hands burn. Running cables pulled off the flimsy bandages he dug out of the bathroom cabinet. 

As he is wrapping them in gauze, he hears Lucas come up behind him. 

“How’re they feeling?” 

“Fine.”

Lucas hisses through his teeth. “Palm injuries are a bitch. So many nerve endings, and they take forever to heal because we’re always…” He scrunches his hands for emphasis. “Never understood why the idiots in movies swear blood oaths that way.”

“Where should they cut themselves?” Jason asks, tying the end of the gauze into a knot.

“Thigh,” Lucas pats his leg. “Fewer nerves, little movement.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

His boss grins as he starts rolling up the sleeves of his flannel. There are times when Lucas doesn’t look like an asshole, and then there are times like this. Maybe it’s the sunglasses. Downtown Gotham gets little sunlight after four in the afternoon, so he’s definitely wearing them for the aesthetic and little else. 

_ He has a boyfriend_, Jason thinks, still shocked by disbelief. Lucas looks like the kind of guy who gets drunk at Hooters. The kind who watches edgy stand-up comedians. The kind who tells women to make him a sandwich. Of course, he _ isn’t_, but still. 

_ Oh, fuck. Is that...is that what people think about me? _

“Quit blocking the lockers, twerp,” Cash says, reaching out to ruffle his hair.

“Gross,” Jason mutters. When he shakes his head, dust settles around his shoulders. “Dude, wash your goddamn gloves.”

“Pssh.” Cash smiles as he throws his stuff in his locker. “Wanna grab a drink with us tonight?”

_ God yes_, Jason thinks, but he shakes his head. “I, uh—”

“Oh, come on. It’ll just be for an hour.”

“Don’t bully him,” Lucas says. “If he wants to join us, he’ll join us.”

Spinning the dial of his padlock, Cash shrugs. His wild blonde hair shudders in the evening breeze. “Whatever,” he says. “Do your thing.”

His thing. What _ is _his thing? Getting drunk and reading Jane Austen? Fuck. No wonder Princeton doesn’t want him.

“I’ll go,” Jason says suddenly. The others turn and look at him, surprise written over their faces. Hell, he’s as surprised as they are. But he said it; it’s too late to back down now. “I mean, I’ll need a ride over there, but—”

“Done.” Lucas nods, smiling again. “Cash, see you over there?”

Cash grunts. That seems to be enough.

The restaurant that Lucas drives him to is one of those beer and burger places that’s dimly-lit and comfortably loud, always showing some kind of sports game. Tonight it’s baseball. Gotham Knights and the San Francisco Giants. A few of his coworkers are already at a large booth across from the bar, drinking from pints and laughing at something Jason can’t quite make out. There’s a blonde man at a table behind them, sitting quietly in jeans and a white tee shirt.

“We used to sit at the bar,” Lucas says, navigating around a throng of giggling women. “But then they changed the stools to some pleather shit, and we thought, fuck it, you know?”

“Uh huh,” Jason says.

“Ever been here before?”

“Nope.”

“Shame. It’s got a great vibe,” Lucas says, smiling at the blonde man. “Hey, babe. You made it.”

The blonde man smiles. “Took you long enough. Who’s this?”

With a start, Jason realizes that he is talking to him. “Oh, uh...hey. I’m Jason.” 

“Andrew. I’m—”

“My boyfriend,” Lucas finishes with a grin. He slides into a seat next to Andrew, patting the table in a _ sit down _way. Jason obliges. “Isn’t he cute?” 

“Shut the hell up,” Andrew says, but he laughs anyway. 

Jason watches the two of them talk, feeling...he doesn’t know what he’s feeling. On the one hand, it’s funny seeing Lucas smile like a teenage idiot. On the other, they seem so _ perfect _for each other, and he’ll never have that, and this leaves him with an emptiness inside. 

“So, Jason,” Andrew says, leaning over the table, “how’d you come to work for this loser?”

“Didn’t want to work in retail, I guess,” he replies.

Lucas nods solemnly. “Smart dude. I tried it once. Lasted only a week before I thought I’d kill the next person who wanted to see the manager.” He looks up from the table to nod at Cash, who is flirting clumsily with the bartender. “See,” he continues, motioning. “You have to put up with shit like _ that_.”

Andrew raises an eyebrow. “You literally asked me out at work, dumbass.”

“That’s different. We’re both hot.”

_ Oh my god_. Jason sits, half-amused, torn between asking a trivial question and just turning around and talking to the coworkers at the table behind them.

Waiter to the rescue. Someone dressed in black walks over to their table, pen poised over the tiny notebook in his hand. “Hi! Welcome to Boilermaker, I’ll—Jason! Hi.”

Jason chokes on his tongue. Dick. It’s _ Dick_. His hair is pulled away from his face, and he’s wearing slacks and a button-up, but it’s _ him_. What’s a billionaire's son doing waiting tables? Is this just another part of his “perfect” shtick? Disgusting. 

“Hey,” he mutters, trying and failing to keep his face from growing warm. God damn it. At least the light in here sucks.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Dick says, shooting him a grin. “Didn’t know you liked burger bars.”

“Neither did I.”

Dick motions toward his clothes. “You just come from work?”

“Yep.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Dick blinks, and seems to remember what’s going on. “So,” he says, directing his eyes toward Lucas and Andrew. “What can I get you?”

“Firestone,” Andrew says. “Thanks.”

Lucas leans over the table. “You got Station 26?”

“Yup.”

“Then I’ll take it.”

Dick writes it down in his notebook, then turns back to Jason. “And for you, Jay?”

_ Jay_. Something flutters in his stomach. “Root beer’s fine,” he says. 

“Got it.” Dick winks and tucks the notebook in his shirt pocket. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

As soon as he’s gone, Jason forces himself to look Lucas in the eyes. The softer side of his boss has disappeared, and the smug asshole is back. “What?” Jason asks flatly, tapping his knuckles on the table. 

“‘Jay,’” Lucas says, as if testing the name out on his tongue.

“What?”

“Nothing. He likes you.”

Jason feels his blush deepen. “No he doesn’t,” he says. “Shut up.”

“That’s Bruce Wayne’s son, right?” Andrew asks, watching Dick linger by the bar. “He’s cute. Nice ass.”

Lucas nods. “Fuck yeah. If he wasn’t ten years younger than me—ow!” He yelps as Andrew elbows him in the ribs. Then, with a grin, he adds, “Go for it, _ Jay_.”

“If you’re into it,” Andrew adds quickly, sending a pointed look at his boyfriend. 

“Right. _If _you’re into it.”

“A, I’m not into anything,” Jason says. “And B, You’re wrong. He’s definitely not into me.”

“Uh huh. Because I’ve been a stupid twenty-something,” Lucas replies, smirking, “and that was _ exactly _how I acted. Tell him, babe.”

“_Exactly _ how he acted.”

Jason rolls his eyes and fiddles with the paper napkins on the table. “He’s just being nice. Waynes, you know?”

Lucas hums in response.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

“He’s being nice.”

“I never said he wasn’t.”

“What happened to your hands?” Andrew asks suddenly, motioning to his own palms. “Dumbass here working you too hard?”

Jason pauses, unsure if Andrew is actually interested or if he was just itching to change the conversation. Either way, he lowers his hands beneath the table and shrugs. “I fell. Not on the job.”

“He punched someone. Right in the nose,” Lucas adds.

Andrew looks at him, his blue eyes wide with...surprise? Anger? Disbelief? “You did _ what?”_ he asks. “Did Lucas tell you to do it?”

“No, I just…” Jason trails off, watching Dick approach their table. How does Boy Wonder make a stupid waiting uniform look good? Back when his mom used to wait tables—before she gave up on work entirely—she always looked so strange in her uniform. Like someone had dressed her in the clunkiest outfit possible. But Dick, he makes it _ work_.

“Firestone, Station 26, and one root beer,” Dick says with a smile, setting the drinks down on the table. “Anything else I can get ya?”

Lucas leans over the table as he slowly drags a finger over the rim of his pint. “So Dick, how do you know this kid here?” he asks, nodding his head toward Jason, who shrinks inside his skin

_ He’s just being an ass, don’t let it get to you_.

Dick laughs. “We used to go to school together,” he says, sending a wide smile toward Jason. “Then we just kinda met again, you know?”

“Oh. I _ know_.”

“You should probably just open a tab for our table,” Andrew interjects. “And feel free to stop by if you want to talk.”

Jason doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, fuming into the dark liquid in his glass and watching the bubbles rise to the surface. Ugh, root beer. If only he were three years older. He can’t _ wait _to get drunk on good stuff and not the cheap shit in his apartment.

“Maybe,” Dick says. Then, leaning closer to Jason, he says, “You’re working the floofy hair right now. You should wear a hardhat more often.”

Back when he was dating Isabel, he missed a lot of her flirting. Sometimes she’d run her fingers over the back of his neck, and he’d jump and tell her _ don’t do that, it’s not funny_, and then she’d tell him he ruined the mood, and honestly that was okay with him. And when he’s gone to parties with Grant, conversations would come and go before Grant said, _ you realize she was flirting, right? _

But this time, this time Jason doesn’t miss it. Well. He doesn’t think he does. In all likelihood, Dick is just being nice—funny, even—but it’s so, so easy to read his words as flirting.

_ Play it cool, stupid_. Breathing deeply, he says the first thing that comes to his mind: “At least one of us should have good hair at work.”

Oh fuck. Was that mean? Did he insult him? Could—

Dick whistles. “Fair,” he says, tapping one of the clips that keep his dark locks trapped behind his ears. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but then the bartender is calling for him, and he’s gone in a blink.

Both Lucas and Andrew are staring. Great.

“Deny _ that_,” Lucas says. 

“Fuck you.”

“Ignore him,” Andrew says. “But for the record, I think you’d look cute together. If you, you know, swing that way.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Dick flirts with everyone,” he says, stirring the root beer until more bubbles appear against the glass. “It’s just his way of showing affection.”

“Oh, he’s showing affection all right.”

He shoots Lucas a look. “Do you wear those sunglasses at home, too? ‘Cause you may want to see a doctor about your eye condition.”

“There’s nothing wrong with his eyes,” Andrew says. “He’s just an asshole.”

“Yeah, but I’m _ your _asshole.” 

“You guys are gross,” Jason says. He doesn’t mean it to be insulting, but he feels like the words are sharper than he intended. Luckily, neither of them seem to notice. Or care.

Lucas holds up a finger as he downs half his beer, finishing with a sigh. “We’re not finished with you yet, _ Jay. _”

“You realize this is weird, right? You giving me advice, or whatever this is.”

“Eh.”

Jason shoots a look at Andrew: _ you seem to be the normal one. Back me up, here. _

But Andrew merely shrugs. He’s good-looking too, Jason realizes, though his face is less “asshole” and more “pretty” than Lucas’. Between them, he’s definitely the one that seems approachable. 

“Fair,” he says at last, leaning back in the booth. “Lucas, stop it.”

“I’m just saying, if I were nineteen—”

“Eighteen.”

“—eighteen and single, I’d go for it.”

“You’ve made that abundantly clear,” Andrew says. “Now shut up.”

He does, but not without shooting a grin at Jason. At least it’s not his normal asshole smile. It’s a little softer, kinder too, like he actually cares. 

Jason sinks a little lower into his seat. _ He’s just trying to be nice because he doesn’t know how to deal with you. Like Dick. _It’s dangerous to read into these things, because that’s how he ends up with friends like Grant, who think it’s okay to say stupid shit in front of dozens of people. 

_ Oh shit. _ He shoots upright, anxiety swarming in his chest. School. He forgot all about school. How is he going to explain his absence to his teachers? Will he have to catch up on a lot of work? Everyone’s going to think he’s such a coward for not going in. God. He’s so _ stupid_. 

“You alright, kid?” Lucas asks. 

“It’s nothing,” Jason says quickly. He goes back to fingering the napkins, tearing the corners into brown paper confetti. “Just realized I forgot something.”

“At the site? I can drive you back if you—”

He shakes his head. The condensation from his glass wets his palms, and the next napkin he touches dissolves into mush. “It’s a school thing. I’m fine.”

Andrew hisses through his teeth. “Right, homework. That sucks,” he says, nudging Lucas in the side. “Scooch. I need the bathroom.” 

Lucas raises an eyebrow. “We’ve been here ten minutes, and you already have to piss?” 

“_You’ve _been here ten minutes. Move, asshole.”

He does, and then it’s just the two of them. They both pretend to listen to the table next to them, as their coworkers make bets about whether or not Cash can get the bartender’s phone number by the end of the night. After a moment, Lucas loudly gulps down the rest of his pint, then wipes his mouth on his sleeve. 

“He won’t,” he says.

“Who won’t what?”

“Cash won’t get her number. It’s not gonna happen.”

Jason looks at Cash, then at the bartender. “Why do you say that?”

“I could tell the moment he walked up to her. She’s got a partner, but she wants a hefty tip, so she plays along. Look,” he says, pointing. “She’s got a Claddagh ring. Right hand, heart toward wrist. She’s in a relationship.”

“Shit,” Jason breathes, nodding. “That’s impressive.”

“It’s my special talent,” Lucas says, smirking. At once, a more serious look passes over his face. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable, talking about Dick.”

Jason feels the blush start creeping up his neck again. God damn it. “It’s fine,” he says. “You didn’t.”

“It’s okay if you’re not fine.”

“Who said that I’m not fine?”

Lucas raises his hands in a _ not me _ gesture. “If you’re ever not fine…”

“Aim for the nose,” Jason finishes. “You told me already.”

Laughing, Lucas says, “Well, I was going to say that you could always come to me. But the nose works too. Or the neck.”

It takes a moment for him to digest the words. _ It’s a joke, right? He can’t be serious. _ Lucas _ looks _ serious. Still, Jason is struck by a sudden sickness. What kind of person would want to help _ him? _

An hour later, and Jason is still wondering. It’s hard to keep track of the things that Lucas and Andrew say when all he wants to do is curl up on the bench and scream into his shirt. Or punch something. Either one will do. 

“I think I’m gonna head out,” he tells them, grinning so Lucas won’t give him a spiel about feeling fine. 

Lucas looks over at him. “You sure?”

“Homework. How much do I—”

“It’s a fucking root beer, kid. You don’t owe me anything. And no,” Lucas says, before Jason can protest, “you can’t convince me otherwise. Give up.”

“You better listen. He’s a stubborn bastard,” Andrew says, grabbing Lucas’ hand and squeezing gently.

“Alright,” Jason replies, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt. He doesn’t look at their hands, together, on the table. “Thank you. I’ll see you Friday, then.”

Andrew smiles. “See you around, Jason.”

“Yeah.” Lucas nods. “Now scram, kid.”

As Jason walks toward the door of the restaurant, he looks for Dick. Or rather, he looks around at the decorations, wondering if Dick will happen to end up in his field of vision. But he doesn’t. _ He’s probably in the kitchen, or something _, he thinks, chewing the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the twisting sensation inside him. And then he is outside, and the wet evening air fills his lungs.

He walks slowly through the parking lot, checking the bus times on his phone. Next bus: eight minutes. Not too bad. At least he doesn’t have to wait in the cold, thinking about other schools that will reject him Maybe this time—

His body bumps into something. Someone. There’s a small grunt and the sound of a phone hitting the asphalt, then Jason comes to. Of course. Of _ course_.

“Sorry!” he says, a little too quickly. God. Even beneath street lights, Dick’s eyes are sparkling. “I didn’t—oh shit. Your phone.”

“Don’t worry,” Dick says, grabbing his phone and dusting it on his apron. “I’ve dropped it a million times. It’s never shattered. See?” He holds it up for Jason, showing off the smooth screen. Jason supposes that rich kids can afford that type of screen protection.

As Dick puts his phone away, Jason asks, “You’re on break?”

“Just coming off. Was hoping to catch you before you left,” he says with a smile. _ That smile. _“How’re you doing?”

Jason snorts. “You’re not my server. You don’t need to ask.”

“Maybe I want to ask. Ever think of that?”

Lucas’ words ring in his ears. _ He likes you_. _ He likes you_. _ He likes you_. But that is impossible. Why would a guy like that like a person like him? 

“I’m fine,” Jason says. 

“Were you texting someone special?”

_ He likes you _. “Reading a bus schedule.”

“Ah.” Dick shakes his head, laughing. “I’d offer to drive you home, but I’ll be here another three hours. Evening shift, you know?”

“Right,” Jason says quietly.

“Mmm hmm.” Shuffling from foot to foot, Dick sighs, then smiles. “Are you still coming to the movie on Friday? I can still pick you up after my shift.”

Oh, Lucas would just _ love _that. “I’ll see how tired I am,” Jason mutters. He aims a kick at a pebble. It flies across the parking lot, disappearing beneath a silver minivan. 

“It’ll be real low-key. And hey!” He nudges Jason in the arm, grinning. The spot he touches starts to burn. “We’ll have a _ lot _ of popcorn.” 

“Popcorn,” Jason repeats, too stunned to do anything else. _ He touched you. He likes you. This handsome, rich, funny boy likes _you.

“Oh yeah. Tons.” Dick checks his watch, then raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Shit. I gotta get back. See you Friday? Pretty Please?” He pouts, and his lips are so _ full _ and _ pretty _ that there has to be laws against this kind of thing. It’s not fair. 

Before he can stop himself, Jason says, “Friday.” 

Dick’s face splits into a smile. “Awesome!” he laughs, waving dumbly. “I’ll see you then, Jay!”

“See you,” Jason replies, but Dick is already gone. He touches the place on his arm where Dick nudged him. It’s the same temperature as the rest of his body, and yet it’s somehow warmer. 

_He likes you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please don't cut your palms when swearing a blood oath. It's quite possibly the worst place to draw blood (other than, you know, your neck & face). I can't stand this trope and it needs to die.
> 
> Anyway, #WriteMoreMidpollo2020


	11. Movie Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!! First fanfiction chapter of 2020, ehh?
> 
> This chapter is part one of two set on this particular night. Sorry in advance for the multiple things going on—I needed a lot of stuff to happen in a short period of time, okay??? Please forgive me. 
> 
> _warnings for this chapter include: references to drug abuse, homophobia, references to instances of dubious consent_

Friday morning, Jason sits on his bed and stares at his rejection letter from Princeton. 

_ Dear Jason, I am sorry to inform you that we were unable to admit you to Princeton University this year… _

The letter goes on to explain statistics about the number of applicants, how hard it is to choose just a few thousand, that this isn’t a judgement of his worth, blah blah blah. Jason doesn’t really care. The only words that matter are _ I am sorry_, and they’re hardly believable. Like some admissions dude from Princeton cares about him. 

At least the final line makes him laugh: _ If you would like a hard copy of this letter, please email notify@princeton.edu and be sure to include your full name and high school in your request. _Oh yes. He would love a permanent reminder of just how stupid he was to believe he could get into an Ivy League school. 

Jason exits out of the web browser and sighs. Worst part of the day: over. He can stop worrying about that. Now he only has to worry about hanging out with Dick, about what movie they’re going to watch, about whether or not Lucas was right about Dick liking him, about whether Jason maybe possibly is okay with that. 

When he leaves his room, the rest of the world comes crashing back in.

Tommy is sitting on the sofa. _ Fuck. _Just what he needed, isn’t it? Swallowing his revulsion, he walks past him, ignoring the raised hairs on the back of his neck. 

“Finally joining the land of the living, huh,” Tommy says. “You look like shit.”

Jason sighs as he shoves his books into his backpack. “What do you want, Tommy?”

“I’m just trying to make a living.”

“Yeah?” he huffs, throwing the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “Didn’t know you could do that on our sofa.” As soon as the words leave him, a beer can hits the back of his head. It’s empty, so it hardly hurts, but still Jason whips around, fists clenched at his side. “What the _ fuck? _”

“Don’t disrespect me, you little freak,” Tommy hisses, his face made hideous with anger. Then, it softens, and he laughs. “God, you should see your face right now. Go grab me another.”

Jason chooses to lie. “We’re out.”

“Damn. You can’t even afford beer now?” Tommy clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “You’re doing a shit job supporting your mommy.” 

It’s not his job. Jason _ knows _ it’s not his job. He knows that in normal families, parents take care of their kids, clothing them, feeding them, that this is what society expects them to do. And yet, a coil of hurt unfurls itself in his gut. _ Failure. No wonder Princeton didn’t want you. _

He wills it away. “That’s rich,” he says, grabbing a protein bar from the box above the fridge, “coming from the guy selling opioids.”

“What can I say? Your mom buys them.”

Face burning, Jason opens the front door and points down the hall. “Get. Out. Now.”

Tommy laughs. “What if I say no?”

_ I’ll call the police, _ Jason thinks, but they both know he’d never do that. There’s too much… _ paraphernalia _ lying around the apartment. And with his mom in the other room, under all sorts of influences, Tommy wouldn’t be the only one leaving in handcuffs. Then what would Jason do? 

So he just stands there with his hand around the doorknob, scowling. His heart drums against the inside of his chest.

“Thought so,” Tommy says with a chuckle. “Fucking cocksucker.”

It’s as if he’s been struck by a car. “Don’t call me that,” he snaps.

“I’ll call you whatever I like.”

Jason struggles to keep still. All he wants is to drive his fist into Tommy’s stupid, squashed nose, again and again until he leaves their lives forever. No more cuts. No more bruises. No more drugs. 

“Tell you what, fuckhead,” Tommy says. “You do something for me, I’ll get out of here.”

He doesn’t even need to ask what the job is. “I’m not gonna be your mule.”

“Pity. You’d make more money slinging oxy than drilling holes.” He pauses, then adds, “Unless someone’s drilling you on the side.”

Jason’s fingers tighten around the doorknob until his knuckles are white. “Shut up,” he says.

“Watch your tongue, boy, or I’ll find some way to make money off it. And I’d really hate to do that.” Tommy offers him a wicked grin.

“Sure doesn’t seem like it.”

“It’s the truth,” he says. “I’d much rather have you pick up something for me. Just a little errand. No one gets hurt.”

_ You mean _ you _ don’t get hurt. _“No.”

“Come on. What else is a loser like you doing on a Friday night?”

It’s no use trying to argue. And time keeps moving forward, anyway. He’s going to be late. “If my mom wakes up, tell her I’ll be back late,” Jason says at last, stepping into the hall. The moment the door closes behind him, he releases a shaky breath and walks away.

School is fine. No one except his teachers seemed to notice that he missed Tuesday’s classes, and even they had little to say about it. _ Just make sure you take a look at pages seventy-two and seventy-three. We went over the answers to the homework. Next time please email me; I’ll let you know about the assignment. _By today, the whole “skipping school” thing seems like little more than a memory. 

The past few days, he’s been eating lunch with Harper, Kyle, and Cullen. It’s fine. Really. It’s fine. They’re nice enough, even if they don’t know anything about him. At the very least, no one seemed to learn anything from his fight with Grant. Seems that the rumor mill is more focused on “Jason Todd is a crazy motherfucker” than anything else, which is fine with him. And the boys from the soccer team, Richie and Virgil and Bart, they don’t seem to know anything more than “Grant was a jerk”—and they agree. 

“Coming to practice today?” Virgil asks him after school.

“Can’t. Working.”

“Damn. You’re always working.”

Sometimes Jason wonders why he doesn’t just take Tommy up on his offer and make a couple thousand bucks with minimal effort. If Tommy could do it this long without getting arrested, then he _ definitely _can. And the bastard is right; it’s easier than working in construction.

But they’re intrusive thoughts, really. Jason would _ never. _

“Gotta pay for college,” he says, trying not to think about Princeton. 

Virgil hums. “Our final game is coming up,” he says.

“Cool.”

“Coach Clover won’t play you if you’re never at practice.” 

Jason shrugs, shoving the last of his books in his locker. “I’m far from the best.” _ Understatement of the year. _

“Yeah,” Virgil says, “but you’re the biggest.”

“Like that matters.”

Out of nowhere, Bart appears. “Yes, it does,” he says. “Albany High’s got a huge forward. We need someone to take him out.”

“If I wanted to play football,” Jason replies, “I wouldn’t have quit the team.”

“I thought you quit because you got wrecked?”

Virgil hits him over the head with a Spanish book. “Shut up, Allen.”

“Hey! I’m just looking to sort out the facts.”

Jason hikes his backpack over his shoulder. “I’ll see you guys Monday,” he mutters, knowing full well they’re too engaged in conversation to hear him.

On the way to the construction site, he checks his phone. Isn’t Dick supposed to be picking him up for a thing tonight? Unless it was all some sort of joke. Which Jason would understand. Why would a cool rich college student want to hang out with a stupid, deadbeat kid like him? Yeah, Lucas said that Dick likes him, but maybe Lucas was seeing what he wanted to see. Or maybe he just wanted to make Jason feel better. Or maybe—

_ So when should I pick you up tonight? And where? There’s too much construction in Gotham lol. _

Jason breathes a sigh of relief. _ 6:00 at the corner of 11th and Marin. Thx. _

_ No prob! See u then _😊

He types a smiley face, then erases it in favor of _ see u _, because the last thing he wants is to string Dick along. Even if he was interested—and he isn’t, he definitely isn’t—Dick would never want to date someone who isn’t interested in sex. No one would want someone like that. 

At work, Jason thinks about all the excuses he should have made. I need to help my mom out around the house (I left my mom alone with her drug dealer, and I really, _ really _shouldn’t have). I need to catch up on work (because I skipped school on Tuesday after punching my only friend). I’m sorry but something came up (I’m sorry but I’m afraid to spend time with you because I think you might like me and I’m such a piece of shit I don’t even know how to respond to that).

Well. Too late now. 

After, everyone is clearing out of the construction site. Well. Everyone except Jason, who sits at a bench just inside the gate, flipping his phone in his hands. He doesn’t know if he’ll recognize Dick’s car in the dark, seeing as he’s only been inside it once—twice. He’s been in Dick’s car twice. Except he doesn’t remember the first time. God. The party feels like some kind of nightmare fever dream: Grant, beer, music, Dawn—

His stomach turns over. He wanted to tell himself to get over it, that it was his fault and he should just accept that and move on. It _ happened _ because he was _ stupid _ . He slept with her because he was piss drunk, and if he was sober he _ never _would have. This is why good schools don’t want him. He’s a stupid boy who gets drunk and has sex. It’s his fault. 

So why does he still feel like shit? 

Ha. What a dumb question. There are a million reasons.

_ Mom. Tommy. Grant. Dawn. Princeton. Money. Poverty. Drugs. School. Life. Dick. Me. Me. Me. Me. _

Jason hugs his chest tightly, bracing himself against the approaching cold. Though the sun has not yet fallen, the sky is dark and stormy and there’s a crispness in the air that speaks of rain. Hopefully Dick will hurry up, and then Jason can feel like shit for a whole different reason.

“Gonna close up shop,” Lucas says, coming up behind Jason.

“Hmm?”

“I need to lock up.” He nods his head at Jason. “Did you miss the bus again? Need a ride home?”

“Oh. No. Thanks,” he replies. “I’m, um, waiting for someone to pick me up.”

Lucas raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you let people pick you up?”

Jason shrugs.

“Alright then. Don’t tell me.”

“No, it’s just…” He pauses, and takes a breath. _ Why is this so embarrassing? God. _“I’m going to a friend’s house and couldn’t take the bus.”

Nodding, Lucas asks, “How late are you staying out?”

“When did you become my dad?” Jason laughs, except he isn’t really laughing, because his dad would never have been concerned about when and where he goes. If he weren’t in prison, he’d probably be scamming someone or yelling about money problems. 

“Well, forgive me for making sure you’ll get back to your house tonight,” Lucas says, crossing his huge arms over his chest. “The last thing I want is to lose my best teenage employee.”

“I’m your _ only _teenage employee.”

“And? My point still stands.”

Jason hums in acknowledgement, but says nothing. So Lucas tries again. 

“Who’re you seeing?”

“Dick,” he says, ignoring the blush creeping up his face. _ Fuck. _No matter how hard he tries, it won’t go away. What is he, a fucking school girl? 

Lucas isn’t helping. His grin is shit-eating, to say the least. “Oh really?” he asks. “Did he ask you out or did you ask him?”

“No one asked anyone out,” Jason replies, a little too quickly. “His brother’s doing a movie thing, and he invited me.”

“Mmm.” 

“He’s my friend.”

With a knowing smile, Lucas pulls out a ring of keys. “Whatever you say, kid,” he says. “Just get out of my construction site.”

Jason stands and slips out of the gate. “Alright, alright. Damn,” he says, sitting down at a bench right outside the chain-link fence. Behind him, he can hear the clink of metal against metal as Lucas closed the gate. Then, footsteps. 

“Oh, and Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“Dick’s a good kid.”

Again Jason says, “Yeah?”

“What I mean is…” Lucas pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’ll want you to kiss him first.”

_ Aaand _ the blush is back. _ Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. _“I’m not going to kiss him.”

“Didn’t say you had to.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

There’s a moment of silence, then Lucas tips an imaginary hat at him and walks toward the lot where everyone leaves their cars. For the first time since the morning, Jason is all alone.

He swings his feet back and forth, except he can’t really, since he’s too tall and his shoes catch on the ground. So he stills, sitting quietly as cars pass up and down the road. Their headlights are blinding. 

6:08. Maybe Dick forgot about him. Did Dick forget about him? Not that that’s a big deal or anything. The buses run pretty consistently on weekdays, and Jason could easily get home. 

A wet breeze blows through him. With a deep sigh, Jason buries his head in his hands. _ What the hell am I doing? _he thinks, rubbing his eyes, his arms. Why couldn’t he just stayed home? Why didn’t he get into Princeton? Why didn’t he pretend to want Isabel? Why why why why why?

In front of him, a car slows to a stop. It beeps once quietly. Jason looks up to see Dick, smiling apologetically and waving from the driver’s seat. 

“So sorry I’m late,” he says when Jason slips into the car. “Manager lost the shift schedule and wanted me to work things out with everyone. You know.”

“I know,” Jason replies, not knowing. Dick is still in his work uniform, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows to expose smooth, strong forearms. _ He must moisturize, or something _, he thinks, ignoring the urge to touch them. 

“You thirsty?”

“What?”

Dick retrieves a water bottle from the backseat. Hydroflask. Typical. “If I were working in construction, I’d chug a gallon a night,” he says. “All that lifting and hammering… Well. At least you strengthen your back and shoulders.”

“It’s not that bad,” Jason offers, but he accepts the bottle all the same. “We’ve got machines to lift the real heavy shit.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Squirming, Jason adds, “And I’m not allowed to use the hand tools.”

“Oh?” Dick asks.

“I haven’t been trained yet. Not properly, anyway.”

Dick shrugs, pulling the car back into traffic. “I guess that makes sense. Are you warm enough, or should I turn up the heat?”

The car feels fine, but Jason’s face is hot. “It’s good,” he says.

“Cool, cool.” Dick peers down the road, brow furrowed. “Damn traffic. Hopefully it’ll only take thirty minutes to get to the manor, but you never know in rush hour.”

“The manor?” Jason asks, realization slowly dawning on him. “As in, _ Wayne Manor? _”

“Yes?”

Oh, fuck. Jason looks down, sees the mud on his boots, the tears in his jeans, the wrinkles and stains on his flannel. “I can’t—I’m wearing—I shouldn’t go in there.”

“What?” Dick makes a _ psssshhh _sound. “Of course you can.”

“Dick…”

“Jay.”

“I’m wearing work clothes. I look like shit.”

“Yeah, same.”

“You_ don’t _ look like shit,” Jason says, wondering if that’s even possible. “And you used to live there. Of course _ you’d _be comfortable. But me, I’m… I’m gonna look like a mangy kid from the East End.”

“I think you look great.” Dick takes a moment to offer a kind smile, and Jason feels a tug in his stomach. There’s a moment of silence, then Dick adds, “Besides. You should see what I used to wear around the house. Alfred practically had to follow me around with a broom and stain remover. We’re not a judge-y family, I promise.”

Jason makes a noise of acquiescence, swallowing the anxiousness pooling in his throat. He wants to trust Dick—really, he does—and everything he’s learned so far about their family seems to be pointing in an accepting direction. But still. Bruce Wayne is _ Bruce Wayne _and he can’t simply wave that off. 

_ Oh my god. I’m meeting his family. _

The manor is huge. _ Huge _huge. It’s the biggest house Jason has ever seen, so big he would need a full day to walk around the grounds. And it’s dark, and it’s Gothic, and it looks so cold Jason wonders how Dick could emerge so warm and cheerful. The weather doesn’t help. As they walk up to the doors—huge and arched and black—rain starts falling. 

“I can’t wait to show you the library,” Dick says, pushing open the door. “Dude, you’re gonna go ham.”

“Do watch your step, Master Richard. It is quite difficult to rid a Persian rug of mud,” someone says. An older man—British, judging by the voice—steps into the entryway, hands tucked behind his back. 

Dick grins sheepishly. “Sorry, Alfred.”

Right. Dick had mentioned an Alfred in the car. Judging from the tuxedo, he must be a butler of some sort—unless Dick was really downplaying the dress code of the manor, that is. Suddenly Jason feels like a scab. Vulgar. Unpolished. It doesn’t help that the manor is perfect: rich wood, gold and marble everything, crystal chandeliers. What the fuck is he doing here?

Alfred looks over at Jason, then back at Dick. “I assume, Master Richard, that you are polite enough to introduce me to your friend?”

“Oh! Right. Alfred, this is Jason. Jason, this is Alfred. He’s our—” Dick pauses, then smiles. “—well, our everything, really.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Jason says. He tries to make his smile look genuine, but something tells him he looks like a maniac. 

“Charmed, Master Jason,” Alfred says, an amused smile on his lips. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

_ Finally? _Jason casts a look at Dick, who has become very interested in the wooden patterns of the floor. When it’s clear that Dick won’t say anything, he asks, “Should I take my shoes off, or leave them on, or…?”

“Either is fine, provided the floors remain mud free.”

Off then. He undoes his laces, something he never does, and, after Alfred insists, hands them to the butler. God. He hopes they don’t smell. 

“Is everyone here?” Dick asks.

“Indeed so,” Alfred replies. “Shall I show you to them?”

“I got it. Thanks, Alfred.”

“Thanks,” Jason calls dumbly as Dick drags him up a staircase bigger than his apartment. He can only imagine how hard it is to keep this place clean. But then again, they probably have an army of cleaning staff. They can afford it. 

There is a crowd gathered in what is likely one of a million lounges, draped over sofas and loveseats as Tim fiddles with a projector. Three of them he knows: Tim, Cass, and Steph. There’s a dark-haired boy he can only assume is Damian, and another punk-ish kid sitting too close to Tim. 

Dick pushes Jason into the middle of the room. “Kon, Damian, this is Jason,” he says. “Jason, this is Damian, my brother—”

Damian clicks his tongue. 

“—and Kon, Tim’s boyfriend.” 

“I prefer the term ‘paramour’ actually,” Kon says, grinning. He reminds Jason of Lucas, if Lucas were smaller, rowdier, brighter, and into Green Day. “Nice to meet you, Jason.” 

“Hi.”

Dick doesn’t waste any time in integrating himself. “So, guys,” he says, plopping down next to Steph. He motions for Jason to join him, and Jason does, albeit hesitantly. “What’re we watching?”

“What we watch depends on whether or not Drake can get the projector working,” Damian snaps. He reaches over his shoulder, and Jason realizes there’s a black and white cat up there, purring loudly. 

“I know how to work a projector, Damian,” Tim says. “There’s a lot to plug in.”

“I believe in you, babe,” Kon says.

Jason watches Kon wrap an arm over Tim’s shoulders, wishing it were really that simple, that he could just like someone and touch them without worrying what they’ll want him to do. If only—

“So, Jason,” Steph says. “How’ve you been since I’ve seen you last?”

“Um…” Jason clears his throat and shakes away the bad feelings. “Fine. I’m fine. You?”

She grins. “Better every day.”

“Got it,” Tim announces loudly, and the projector whirs to life. At first the screen shows nothing, then a logo, then a blue light waiting for an HDMI signal. 

“We should watch _ Fury Road _,” Steph says. “Movie. Of. The. Decade.”

Cass nods. “I agree.”

But Dick shakes his head. “No, we can’t watch that. There’s a _ baby _present.”

“I am _ not _a baby, Grayson,” Damian says.

“He’s right. What are you, ten?” Steph asks.

“Thirteen!”

“Oh right. Of course. _ Totally _not a baby.”

“Wait, you’re almost in high school?” Jason asks, looking at the kid across the room. Damian is hardly five feet tall, and with his big brown eyes and round face, he looks ten at best.

Damian frowns. “Tt. You’re dumb enough for Grayson. I’ll give you that.”

“Excuse me?” Jason says, face reddening. There are two voices in his head, and each makes him feel more queasy.

_ Stupid piece of shit, couldn’t even get into Princeton. _

_ Everyone thinks that you and Dick are dating.  _

“Ignore him,” Dick says, smiling, and the second voice grows stronger. “The meaner he is, the more he likes you.”

“That’s not true!”

“Alright, alright.” Leaning into Jason, Dick whispers, “It is.”

His lips are a centimeter from Jason’s ear, and Jason wonders whether they’re soft or chapped or wet or delicate. They look soft, and silky too, like folds of velvet on his face. Beautiful lips on a beautiful face so close to him, and he should just give up already and  _ kiss him first— _

“ _ Fury Road _ ,” he says at once, tearing himself away from Dick. “I vote for explosions and shit. Sorry, stuff.”

“Please, Todd,” Damian snorts. “I am familiar with all sorts of profanity.”

Jason thinks about his father and Tommy and the general type of people found in the East End. A far cry from the crowd around him now. “Not as familiar as me,” he says quietly. Without looking, he can tell that Dick is feeling sorry for him. A real knight in shining armor, isn’t he? Jason doesn’t need his pity. He doesn’t need anything.

So why does he want to sit closer to Dick? 

When Cass turns off the lights, Jason becomes keenly aware of Dick’s hand resting on the sofa between them. He doesn’t watch the movie. Instead, he watches the light from the projector as it highlights Dick’s cheekbones and jawline, accentuating the sharp angles of his face. He watches Dick’s lips, noting how they part slightly when he is enthralled and purse when he is disgusted. He watches his arms, his chest, his legs, the tendons in his neck that tremble with each sigh. 

And Jason is shot to pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting into Ivy League colleges is **incredibly** difficult. I'm sorry Jay, but it's the truth. Your high GPA can't save you. 
> 
> For those of you who want to see a picture of my new kitten, [HERE SHE IS](https://i.ibb.co/k8bxrQg/83-EB022-D-47-B2-4263-A832-72-A11-E55-DF61.jpg)! Her name is Pippin and I've only had her for two weeks but I would kill and/or die for her.


	12. Storm Traffic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An early update? In MY fic? It's more likely than you think. 
> 
> No warnings. Prepare yourselves.

After two movies, the room feels more comfortable. There’s take-out containers all over, popcorn kernels in the folds of his shirt, and various articles of clothing—socks, sweatshirts, flannels—over the floor. 

Steph hits the lights before they can tell her not to. White floods Jason’s vision, and he blinks, chasing away the painful bright spots. When his sight returns, he sees that everyone remains where they were: Cass is perched on the arm of a sofa, Tim and Kon curled beside her, Damian on the floor with the cat. Dick is still at his side. Their thighs are touching. All of the heat in his body is concentrated where their legs meet, though it soon spreads, climbing up toward his face.

“Well,” Damian says, stroking the top of the cats head. “The first film was hardly worth the R-rating. I’ve seen more blood on the evening news. Father would never have objected to me watching it.”

“Dami, what if these things aren’t good for your developing brain?” Dick asks. Without warning, he throws a pillow at his little brother. It misses him and nearly hits the cat, who howls indignantly into Damian’s arms. 

“Richard!” Damian pulls the cat into his chest. “You could have hit Alfred!”

“Poor Alfred,” Cass mutters into her sweater. 

“Ah, don’t worry,” Steph says. “He’s just being a little brat.”

At once Jason snaps back into reality. “Wait. I thought your butler was named Alfred?” 

“The cat’s named after Alfred,” Dick explains. “And besides, there’s some resemblance.”

Across the room, Tim nods. “It’s the tuxedo.”

“Thanks for the explanation, babe,” Kon says, grinning. “I don’t think he would have figured it out, otherwise.”

“You never know.”

Jason stares at the cat. It’s nuzzling the underside of Damian’s chin, purring loudly as it kneads the arm of his sweatshirt. And Damian looks happy. Well. He doesn’t look _ happy _happy, but something tells Jason that this is what Damian’s happy looks like. 

Suddenly, Jason wants to hold something. Or be held by something. Doesn’t matter. It’s a subtle craving, almost like an absence, that begins deep inside his chest and spreads out toward his limbs. He draws his legs into his chest, resting his chin on his knees.

“Tired?” Dick asks.

He shakes his head. “It’s not even midnight,” he says. “Why would I be tired?”

“You did just come from work, and your job requires even more physical activity than mine, so I was just wondering—”

“I’m fine.” 

“Richard, stop pestering Todd,” Damian snaps. “Your ineptitude will rub off on him, if it hasn’t already.”

“Aren’t you cute,” Jason says flatly.

Damian clicks his tongue and stands, flinging Alfred over his shoulder. The cat’s head bobs up and down as the kid marches out of the room. It seems to be watching Jason, or maybe that’s just in his imagination.

“He’s got the right idea,” Steph says, stretching her arms above her head. “Come on, Cassie. We should get back before the storm picks up.”

Cass nods. “Definitely.”

“Wait, so we’re done?” Tim asks.

“We old people go to bed early,” Dick replies, waving him off. “Go watch something else in your room. And Kon—”

Kon looks up from his phone.

“Try anything, I’ll kick your ass into the next decade.”

Tim blushes deeply, releasing his boyfriend’s hand so he can flip Dick off. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, grinning as the two of them pack up and shuffle out. 

“He’s not going to listen,” Cass says, picking her shoes up from off the floor. While she ties her laces, she looks up and makes eye contact with Jason. He looks away. When he looks again, she’s standing in front of him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He coughs. “I mean, yeah. Why”

“You’re worried about something.” It wasn’t a question.

“Maybe I’m tired and I don’t know it.”

“I see.”

Jason waits for her to say something else, trying not to look irritated as he does. Her large, black eyes stare back at him, unmoving. _ Christ, _ he thinks, coughing again to fill the void.

At last, she smiles, and touches his shoulder. “I think you’re really nice,” she says.

“Cass!” calls Steph from the hallway. 

The hand on his shoulder disappears, as does Cass. It’s just Jason and Dick, alone together, in a half-cleaned room. 

Rain is tapping against the wide, gothic window. The droplets run into rivers that fall down the glass. Jason stares, pretending to be interested in the light caught in the water, but really he just doesn’t want to look at Dick. 

“You seen them before?” Dick asks.

Water, water, water. So pretty. And the windows are gorgeous, too. “Seen what before?”

“The movies.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Jason replies. He sinks deeper into the couch, casting a sideways glance at Dick. His hair is a dark mess, a wavy mop on top of his head, that falls into his eyes as he leans down to pick up a cushion. What would it be like, to draw his fingers through that hair, run them down his jaw, over his lips—

Jason should help clean up.

“You don’t have to,” Dick says as he starts folding a blanket, but Jason shakes his head.

“It’s only fair.”

“If it were fair, Tim would be cleaning. This thing was his idea.”

“Whatever. I like to clean.”

“So you’ve told me.” Dick says. He picks up the other end of the blanket and helps Jason fold it. Their hands brush together, briefly, and Jason flinches, not sure if he felt static or something else. 

Cleaning. Talk about cleaning.

“I clean my apartment about once a week,” he says. “Take out the trash, wipe things down. That kind of stuff.”

“That’s cool.” Dick sits down, twisting his fingers together. Then he says, “What’s your family like?”

_ Fuck. _Jason stares at the carpet, ignoring anxiety as it pushes his stomach to his toes. “It’s just me and my mom. Nothing special.” 

Dick smiles. “I wouldn’t say that,” he replies, and Jason scoffs, hoping his face is not as red as it feels. 

There’s a moment of silence. Then Jason sighs. “I should…I should probably be getting back to her, you know? It’s late.”

“Yeah.” Dick sighs. “It’s really sweet, how much you care about her.”

Jason shrugs. “I have to care about her,” he says, picking at the skin around his thumbnail. “She’s my mom.”

Dick lets out a soft laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing! Nothing. It’s just…” He pauses, clearly playing with the words in his head. “Bruce is a great dad, and my parents were…they were amazing.”

“There’s a ‘but’ coming, isn’t there,” Jason says. 

“With me? Always.”

Jason stares, and Dick’s grin fades.

“But yeah,” he continues. “Sometimes parents are shitty. I’m sure you read about Bruce’s divorce a few years ago?”

A nod. The _ Gotham Gazette _went crazy over it. Rumor said Bruce Wayne had several affairs, that he wasted his wife’s money, that a business deal with his wife’s father fell through. Months later, all the rumors were retracted, and an apology was issued. For his part, Jason didn’t believe a word of it, anyway. Not really. 

“Damian’s mom was… Well. She was something. But he loved her. Hell, he was devastated that the courts granted custody to Bruce. Took him a while to figure out he didn’t need to fear his family members…” Dick laughed suddenly, startling Jason. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I’m sure your mom is a wonderful person.”

“Yeah,” Jason said. The back of his head begins to itch, the sensation concentrated where Tommy threw the can at him hours earlier. “She’s great.”

“Well,” Dick says, jumping to his feet. “Hopefully she’ll let you come over more often.”

_ He wants you to come over more often. _

Jason starts picking his skin again. “Your um…Alfred took my boots when I came in.”

Dick makes a _ no big deal _gesture. “He always puts them in the same place. I’ll grab them for you.”

Together they walk through the manor, Jason trailing behind Dick as he focuses on the size of the place rather than the ugly feeling inside him. The hallways stretch down into darkness, the runner is soft and plush beneath his feet. He’s only been to one hotel his entire life, some generic place downtown for one of Grant’s stupid parties, and this hall reminds him of the experience. It’s leagues nicer here, obviously, but still evokes the strange desire to run barefoot along the corridors, breathless, until someone tells him to stop. 

In the time it takes them to get to his boots, Jason counts ten doors, four archways, twelve windows, seven paintings, and five antique-looking sculptures. _ What the fuck, _he thinks, stopping before door number eleven, a closet almost as big as his bedroom. 

“They’re in there somewhere,” Dick says. 

“Uh huh.” Jason walks inside and sees them placed neatly on a rack, freed of dirt. Cursing under his breath, he starts to put them on, when he hears Dick start talking.

“—gonna drive Jason home, then head back to my place.”

“Are you sure?” someone asks. “The rain—”

“Ten miles below the speed limit, I remember. Headlights on, wipers on, et cetera.”

The person hums. “Be careful,” he says.

_ Oh fuck, _ Jason realizes. Dick’s talking to his dad. To _ Bruce fucking Wayne. _

Panic grips him. He can’t help it. Logically, he knows that Bruce is used to meeting poor students—what with Dick’s friends in college and all—and he knows that he’s a philanthropist and all, but still. _ Bruce Wayne. _

It suddenly occurs to him that he’s just waiting in the closet. Great. Now he’s Dick’s weird charity case who takes too long to put on his shoes. 

Taking a deep breath, Jason steps out of the closet and wishes he could disappear. 

Bruce Wayne looks just like he does in all the pictures. Mostly. He’s larger in person, a couple inches taller than Jason and athletic enough to put Cross-fit guys to shame. His face is somewhat stern, but without the filter of a camera, his eyes look softer, like he could coach little league or train puppies.

“Jay,” Dick says. “This is my dad, Bruce. B, this is my friend Jason.”

_ Friend? _ Jason thinks. Then: _ say something, stupid! _“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne.” 

“Bruce, please,” he replies, smiling as he offers a hand. 

Jason takes it, mustering up a smile. _ Of course it’s Bruce. Dick introduced him as Bruce. Why couldn’t you listen, you fucking idiot? _

“So Jason,” Bruce says, “Dick tells me you helped him at the Community Center.”

“Yep.”

“That’s a very nice thing you did.”

Dick nods. “Oh yeah. He’s a really caring guy.” Shooting a grin at Jason, he adds, “We’re lucky to have him around.”

Jason wants to die. 

“Well.” Bruce smiles, and it’s such a weird thing to see. Bruce Wayne, billionaire, _ smiling. _“You’re always welcome in our home, Jason.”

“Thanks,” he squeaks out. 

Looking to Dick, Bruce says, “Text me when you get back to your apartment.”

“Yeah, I—” Dick is cut off by the sound of his phone. He pulls it out, looks at it, then holds it to his ear. “What’s up?” 

Jason studies the floor. It’s quite nice, the woodwork. In front of him, he can sense Bruce pretending that he too does not feel the awkward silence. 

“That sucks, dude,” Dick says. “Thanks for letting me know. Text me when you guys get back safely.”

“Is something wrong?” Bruce asks, when the call is over.

Dick looks at Jason, eyes apologetic. “It was Steph,” he explains. “There was a pileup on the bridge. They’re fine, but traffic’s stopped in both directions.”

“Wait,” Jason says. The reality of what this means is slowly dawning on him. “How bad is it?”

Dick checks his phone. “Google estimates a sixty minute delay.”

The way he says it is proof enough that Dick doesn’t want to make the drive. But there’s also the fact that this is _ his _house, on a Friday night, and if it weren’t for Jason, Dick wouldn’t have to leave.

“Fuck,” Jason breathes. Then, he remembers where he is. “Shit. Sorry. I mean, sorry.”

A smile pricks at Bruce’s lips. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’ve heard way worse from Tim when he tries to overclock his computer.”

“Jay,” Dick says quietly. “I don’t think—”

“It’s fine. I’ll, um, find some other way home.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, son,” Bruce says. “We’d be happy to host you overnight.”

Gaping like a fish, Jason forces out cracked sentences. “Thank you, Mr. Wayne—Bruce, sorry—but I home—I should probably—”

“I’ll have Alfred prepare one of our guest rooms. Truly, it’s no big deal.”

Great. Now three of the Waynes and a butler think he’s a charity case. Jason sighs deeply, wanting to argue but knowing that he’d get nowhere. There’s one card of his left to play, and it’s a stupid one. 

“Let me check with my mom,” he says, feeling like a six-year-old who wants to go to the park. 

“Of course.” Bruce claps him on the shoulder, and smiles. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Jason squeaks out an “okay” before Bruce lets go and walks down the hall, leaving him alone with Dick once more.

Dick taps his foot against the floor, looking sheepish. “I really am sorry,” he says. “It’s just—I’d be two hours—and the rain—”

“It’s fine.”

“Are you sure? Because I will drive you, if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable!” Jason snaps. Then he runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I just—I need to call my mom.”

Dick nods. “Yeah. I’ll, um…just wait here, then.”

Jason watches him sit down on a nearby bench, pulling out his phone. His mother’s cell rings once. Twice. _ Pick up, _ he begs. _ Please pick up. _

On the fourth ring, she does. “Jason?” she asks. Her voice is slow, groggy.

“Hey mom.”

“Where are you?”

“Are you okay?”

She sighs. “Yes, Jason. _ God. _Answer the question.”

“I’m at a…a friend’s house,” he says, cheeks flushing with heat. “Remember?”

“Which friend?”

“His name is Di—Richard. He’s from school.”

Silence.

“Anyway, there’s really bad traffic tonight, and…um… I don’t think I’m going to make it back. Will you be okay?”

She doesn’t answer. 

Jason becomes keenly aware of Dick sitting behind him. Pressing the phone to his skin, he whispers, as quietly as possible, “Tommy isn’t there, is he?”

His mom swears. “Jason, I _ told _ you to stop worrying about Tommy.”

“Mom—”

“I’ll be fine,” she says. “I’ll be fine. Have fun with Richard.”

The call drops. Jason stares at his reflection in the screen, then slips his phone in his pocket. When Dick looks up at him, he forges a smile. 

“We’re all good,” he says.

Dick grins. “Great. Do you want to do something together?” he asks. There’s a look on his face as he says it, a quiet hopefulness hidden beneath a layer of enthusiasm. It’s the kind of look that, despite everything, brings warmth to Jason’s chest. It’s…cute. Dick is cute.

The smile falls off his face. _ Oh god. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fu— _

“Something wrong?” Dick asks.

Jason clears his throat. “Nothing,” he replies, staring everywhere but right in front of him. _ Dick is cute. Really cute. But you’ve known that for a while, haven’t you? Too bad it will never work out for you two. _

“Right.” Dick says quietly. “So what do you want to do?”

In the end, they play _ Mario Kart _together. In Dick’s Room.

Jason isn’t great, because he’s only ever played console games with Grant, and his computer is full of old role-playing games circa 2009. Then there’s the fact that he’s in a _ bedroom _ sitting next to a _ cute boy _that may or may not be waiting for Jason to kiss him first. Oh! And the fact that a month ago he knew he was straight, and a week ago he figured out that he’s just fucked up, and now he thinks Dick is cute, and he’s sitting right next to Dick, and if he leans too far to the left they’ll be touching. And he’s in Dick’s bedroom.

It’s not actually that messy. (“Alfred keeps me in check,” Dick admitted. “My apartment is the disaster.”) They sit cross-legged on the floor, playing on a tv that is much older and smaller than Jason was expecting. He figured billionaire’s kids would have rooms stocked with 65-inch screens, surround sound, et cetera, but in reality it just a tiny system squashed between a wardrobe and the wall. 

Game eight, and Dick beats him again. Badly. 

“Don’t feel too bad,” he says, nudging him playfully. “Everyone knows that Rainbow Road is the hardest one.”

“Yeah,” Jason says.

“Want to go again?”

“I don’t know.” 

“Alright.” Dick sets down his controller and leans back into the couch. The two of them wallow in silence until Jason thinks it might crawl down his throat and suffocate him. 

Luckily, Alfred steps in, and the quiet dissipates. 

“The Oak Room is prepped for you, Master Jason,” he says. “Down the hall and to the left. There are toiletries in the bathroom and, should you desire them, I have laid out some pajamas. They should fit well enough.”

“Thank you,” Jason says, a little too quickly. 

Nodding, Alfred says, “Now, if there’s nothing else I can do for you two gentleman, I will be retiring for the night. It is rather late, and not all of us can spend the night playing video games.”

Dick shakes his head. “Thanks, Alfred. We’ll be quiet.” 

Alfred hums, bids them goodnight, and walks away. The silence returns. 

Jason is the first to speak. “Is he always—”

“Oh yeah. Alfred’s basically our collective dad,” Dick says. “We’d fall apart without him.”

“Oh.”

“Yep.”

There doesn’t seem to be anything else to say. Jason stretches his legs out, studying the frayed hems of his jeans. If he moves his leg to the left, just barely, their thighs will touch. And if Dick’s hand slides a few inches back, their palms will meet.

“Can I ask you a question?” Dick says suddenly, shutting off the tv.

“You just did,” he replies, rolling his eyes to distract himself from his racing heart. He wants to ask, _ what kind of question? _but maybe that’s too revealing, or cowardly, or both.

“Well, I don’t mean to pry, but… Is your mom sick? You don’t need to answer,” he adds quickly. “I was just wondering, because you seem worried about her, and—”

“She is, in a way,” Jason says softly. Part of him is relieved that Dick didn’t ask about..._ feelings _or whatever, and another part is disappointed. Why is it disappointed?

“Are you okay?”

Jason pauses, then says, “I’m used to it.”

“But are you okay?” Dick asks again. 

“Why do you care?”

_ Aaand _ their hands are touching. Jason’s body stiffens as he feels Dick’s fingers brush against his, then skirt away. _ He likes you, _ Lucas said. _ Kiss him first. _

“Why shouldn’t I care?” Dick asks. “You’re my friend.”

“Who says that?” Jason asks

“I do.”

“Who put you in charge?”

“Dolly Parton. What’s with all the questions?”

“I don’t know,” Jason mutters. “What’s with all of yours?”

“Like I said. I care about you.”

Jason raises his eyes. Dick’s gaze is soft, his lips pursed in a sympathetic smile. God. He wants to punch him for being so unselfish. It’s disgusting, it’s fake, it’s—

He leans forward and kisses him. Dick’s lips are soft, and he smells like honey, and somewhere in the distance Jason feels his hands, warm and strong, settle on his shoulders. For three seconds, everything melts away. It’s just the two of them. Jason begins to feel as if something inside of him is unlocking, giving him access to things he had never felt before.

Then comes the fourth second. That’s when Jason jerks away, his entire body boiling and freezing at once.

“I’m sorry!” he blurts out, scrambling back. 

Dick blinks. He doesn’t appear to be angry, or hurt, or even confused. If anything, he seems amused. “Why are you sorry?”

“I don’t—” Jason shakes his head. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why not?”

“Because this isn’t—because I, uh…” Jason trails off, unable to think straight. His heart beat faster as Dick leans in closer. Dick’s lips are full and parted slightly, his cheeks flushed, his eyes blue and sparkling. Fuck. 

When they kiss again, the room feels strangely quiet. Jason doesn’t want to hear soft breaths, the rustle of hands through his hair, the blood surging in his ears. He only yearns for nothing, for emptiness, so that the moment will forever remain perfect in its simplicity. _ I kissed Richard Grayson _ , he thinks, over and over so that the thought drowns out all else. _ I am kissing Richard Grayson. _

And then they’re not kissing anymore. “Are you okay?” Dick asks softly, and Jason realizes that his cheeks are wet and his eyes are stinging. He wipes his face on his sleeve. The cloth comes back damp.

“I don’t know,” he says, staring down at his sleeve. “I’ve got to—I’m gonna go. Good night.”

Then he is running. The displaced air dries his face as he sprints out the door and down the hall, his breaths light and staccato. He practically dives into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him and collapsing into a heap on the floor. His chest rises and falls, faster and faster, until he grips the fabric of his jeans, afraid something inside him might come loose.

_ I kissed Richard Grayson, _he thinks, but it doesn’t feel so perfect anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *insert 'Jason coming out of the closet' jokes here*
> 
> You thought it would be easy????? Oh no no no! We're just getting started! 
> 
> I **definitely** didn't search "how to write a kissing scene" because this **definitely** isn't my first time writing one... constructive feedback is much appreciated thank you :p


	13. The Weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Jason. Feelings are never so easy.
> 
> Another early update! Enjoy them while they last, my dudes. 
> 
> _warnings for this chapter: vomit, internalized queerphobia___

Jason wakes up curled around a pillow. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and another to remember what he did. 

He sits up, heart beating so quickly that, for a moment, he believes he might burst. _ I kissed Richard Grayson. _ It sounds so impossible in his head, akin to _ I won the lottery _ and _ I got a full scholarship to Princeton. _ But it’s not impossible. That is a thing that he did. That is a thing that happened. _ I kissed Richard Grayson. Twice. _

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Jason breathes deeply. The alarm clock on the nightstand tells him that it’s just after seven. Six hours ago, he was kissing Richard Grayson, and Richard Grayson was kissing him back. Or was that a dream? Of course, it felt like a dream. Not because it was something Jason wished for—like he really knows what he wants, anymore—but because it happened so quickly and with such a burst of emotion that the whole thing felt glazed and incomplete. A donut memory. 

The second hand of the clock moves forward. _ Now what? _ it seems to ask. _ I am not going to stop, so you can’t either. _

He climbs down from the bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes. The rug beneath the bed is cool. His bare feet sink into it, and he realizes that it’s softer than anything in his apartment: his sheets, his pillow, the pair of wool socks he keeps around for cold winter nights. This single, ancient rug is nicer than all the things he owns and will ever own. And that’s one reason he should never kiss _ Richard Grayson _again. 

The second reason, he figures, is that this won’t go anywhere. Dick is twenty-one and in college; Jason is eighteen and probably too poor to afford college. Dick has a large and loving family; Jason has an addict mom and her asshole drug dealer. Dick is openly bisexual and has a million friends; Jason freaked out when he kissed a boy (Richard Grayson!) and punched his closest friend in front of twenty classmates. 

Oh yes, and he can’t forget reason three: there’s a high probability, almost a certainty, that Jason is asexual, or at the very least hormonally deficient. Maybe both. It was why Isabel broke up with him—maybe he didn’t realize it then, but he realizes it now. And it would probably make everyone else leave him too. 

Dick doesn’t ooze sexual confidence in a jackass way, but he’s just so _ perfect _ that there’s definitely an air about him. Sure, Jason can see him saying something stupid kind, _ I’m willing to wait until you’re comfortable, _but the thought just makes him sick. Who’s to say he’ll ever be comfortable? Who’s to say Dick won’t leave him when he finds out? 

As he puts on his shoes, Jason realizes that his hands are shaking. The laces tremble between his fingers, not wanting to form loops. And is heart is still racing, and he has to work to breathe normally, and he realizes: he’s terrified. It’s like when he comes home and his mom is immobile on the floor, except this time it’s worse. This time he knows there won’t be any relief. He’s not going to stop being _ him. _ Not going to stop being _ queer. _

_ I’m gay, _ he thinks, a whisper in his head. No, that doesn’t feel right. _ I’m bi? I like boys? I like a boy. I like Richard Grayson. _

Ugh. He’s going to throw up.

After, Jason splashes is face with cold water and stares at himself in the mirror. His hair’s a mess; his skin pale and greenish; his freckles ugly constellations. What the hell does Dick see in him? Was Dick just being nice by kissing him back? _ Poor Jason Todd, this sad, dumb, pitiable boy. _

When he leaves the room, he hesitates for only a moment, breathing deeply, building enough courage to walk down the hall. Not knowing where else to go, he ends up in the entrance hall. Someone will probably find him here. If the halls are the manor’s circulatory system, this hall is the heart. Well. As far as he knows.

Through the windows, Jason watches the fog roll over Gotham. It’s no longer raining, which is good, but the ground is damp and heavy with mud. He imagines that it will slosh up around his boots and wet his socks. 

There is the creak of wood as someone walks down the stairs. “Oh! Hey,” they say, and Jason recognizes Tim’s voice.

“Hey.”

“I didn’t know you spent the night.”

Jason stares at the floor, bouncing his leg absent-mindedly. “Bridges got closed down.”

“Huh,” Tim says. He yawns and scratches at his arms. “Didn’t realize the rain was that bad. When it rains, it pours, I guess.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“Can I get you anything?” Tim asks. “Cereal? Toast?”

The thought of eating churns uncomfortably inside him. “I’m good. Just waiting for Dick,” he mutters.

Tim looks back up the stairs, as if he could see into Dick’s room. “Is he not up yet?”

“How would I know?” Jason asks, too quickly, too forcefully. He coughs and tries again. “I mean, I assumed he’s still asleep. It’s Saturday.”

_ It’s Saturday. _Isn’t that the dumbest statement of all time. 

“My guess,” Tim says, yawning again, “he’s probably out running. My brother’s crazy, you know. He says he wants to ‘start the day with endorphins’ or something.” 

“Mmm.”

Tim shuffles his feet, staring at his fleece pajama bottoms. “Look,” he says, throwing his thumb in the direction of...something. “I was gonna grab some oatmeal. You want to join me? I don’t want you to be here alone.”

He says this in a caring way, but Jason still can’t help but feel it’s a precaution. _ Can’t leave the poor kid near the nice paintings! Who knows what he can fit in his pockets. _

“What about Kon?” Jason asks. 

“Eh, he sleeps ‘till afternoon, if you let him. Maybe later.”

Jason gets this. Once, after he drank so much he sweat liquor, he woke at two o’clock. The hangover kept him in bed until dinner. “Fine,” he says at last, not wanting to seem ungrateful, or weird. Besides, oatmeal never hurt anyone. And at least he won’t be alone with someone he wants to, but shouldn’t, kiss.

The kitchen is simpler than he imagined. In retrospect, he should have expected this, seeing as the manor is old as balls and wouldn’t have the luxurious kitchens found in McMansion wannabes. Granted, it’s still big. Industrial big. 

Tim pulls out a box of oatmeal and wags it in Jason’s direction. “You sure you don’t want any?” he asks.

“I’m sure.”

“Huh. For a big guy you don’t eat that much.”

Jason almost says, _ I’m used to not eating, _ but he doesn’t want to seem impoverished. Besides. He’s never gone _ hungry. _ He’s just gone _ not full enough. _“I ate a lot of popcorn last night,” he says. “Still feeling—don’t dump those in just yet.”

Tim stops pouring oats into a pot. “What?”

“You should boil the water first. Otherwise you end up with glue. Do you not know how to make oatmeal?”

“It’s not that I don’t _ know _,” Tim says, scooping the fallen oats into his palm. “I just don’t make it a lot.”

“Because you have a butler who does,” Jason finishes.

“Hey. If you had Alfred’s oatmeal, you wouldn’t want to make it yourself, either.” 

Jason says nothing.

“You know,” Tim begins. He turns on the stove; the gas ignites with a hiss. “First time I brought Kon here, he didn’t want to touch anything in case he broke it. None of us are like that, least of all Dick.”

_ I’m not afraid, _ Jason thinks, watching the flames lick the bottom of the pot. _ I just want to go home. _Sighing, he rests his weight on the counter. “How’d you meet Kon?” he asks, if only to change the subject.

“His cousin and my dad are friends-ish.”

“Friends-ish?”

Tim chuckles. “Well. Clark would say they’re friends, but Bruce would probably frown and say that it’s a ‘business relationship,’” he says, air quotes hanging ominously beside his head. 

“Uh huh.”

“Anyway we met and hit it off. Why?”

Jason shrugs. “I’m making polite conversation.”

“Hmm.” Tim stares at the pot of water, turning it on the stove as if that will make it boil faster. It’s clear from the way he’s smiling without eye contact that he doesn’t know what else to say. Figures. Jason’s just an interloper. 

Question: what do you say to someone who showed up, inexplicably, in your entryway, when you’ve only spoken twice before?

Answer: “You’re about to graduate, right?”

“Yep,” Jason replies. “End of May.”

“Do you know what you’re going to do after?”

Jason makes a noise of indifference. “Got into the College of New Jersey. Got rejected from Princeton. Still waiting on Gotham University.” He pauses, then adds, “Or maybe I’ll work full-time.”

“My brother goes to Gotham University,” Tim says. “He likes it.”

“Good for your brother.”

“I’d bet he’d love to talk to you about it.”

Jason thinks about the soft pressure of Dick’s lips on his own. The sweet smell of his skin. The way his whole face goes flush when he’s happy. A spark jumps in his chest, but nothing catches, and the light is extinguished. 

“I’ve got the internet,” he says.

“You should talk to him,” Tim says again. “He likes hanging out with you. We all do.”

“Your water’s boiling.”

“Huh? Oh.” Tim starts pouring oats into the pot, watching them billow in the bubbling liquid. “Now what?”

Jason snorts. “Read the damn directions. I’m not your life coach.”

“That’s not what a life coach does.”

“No offense, but I don’t really care.”

“That’s valid,” Tim says.

Dick’s voice: “What’s valid?”

Jason freezes in place, fixated on the churning oatmeal as if it’s the only interesting thing on the planet. Behind him, he can hear Dick, panting slightly—oh god, the sound of his breath—as he fills a glass with water. 

Tim, to his credit, doesn’t make it awkward. More awkward. “You’re valid,” he says. “We’re all valid.”

“Aww. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Timmy,” Dick says, raising his water glass in a mock toast. Sweat dots his forehead; seeps through the fabric of his shirt. His complexion is a little pinker than usual. Whether it’s from the run or the cold or something else is unclear, but then again Jason doesn’t really care. He’s too busy not staring at Dick’s bare arms, his too-tight shorts, the curve of his—

The oatmeal is about to boil over. Jason reaches out and turns down the flame, wondering how long he can stand there without saying anything. Only a few more seconds, as it turns out.

“Did you sleep alright?” Dick asks him. 

“It was fine.” _ Lie number one. _

“I, um, hope I didn’t keep you waiting this morning.”

“You didn’t.” _ Lie number two. _

“How’re you doing?”

“Fine.” _ Lie number three. _Jason watches Tim from his peripherals, dimly aware that he needs to do something normal before boy genius will be able to read between the lines. “How far did you run?” he asks. “Isn’t it muddy out there?”

Dick appears momentarily confused by Jason’s sudden enthusiasm. “Oh. Um, four miles. And yes, it is.”

“I’ve tried to run cross-country. Didn’t like it that much. You?”

“It’s fine.” 

“Yeah,” Jason says. “It’s probably easier for you, since you have a ballerina body.”

Tim snorts, but Dick’s face remains neutral. “Are you okay, Jay?” he asks. “You seem a little...talkative.” 

Jason turns the stovetop all the way down. “If you think I’m a quiet person, you don’t know me at all.”

Dick doesn’t say anything.

Jason sighs, shifting from foot to foot. “Tim, your oatmeal’s done.”

“Sweet. Thanks, man,” Tim says, stepping between Jason and the pot. Great. Now he has nothing to stare at. He should have let it reduce to oatmeal glue. 

And then Tim is gone, and there really are no more excuses. Jason taps his fingers against his pant leg, pretending like he isn’t thinking about last night’s kiss. 

“Jason,” Dick says. _ Aaand _ here it is. Soft voice, concerned expression. “We should talk about last night.” 

“What’s there to talk about?” he replies.

“You started crying and ran away. I thought maybe—” 

Jason laughs, cutting him off. “Oh that? It happens. Don’t worry about it.”

“But—”

“I said, don’t worry about it. It’s fine. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine.”

It’s clear from Dick’s expression that he’s not. “Do you want to pretend it didn’t happen?” he asks quietly. “Would that be easier?”

“It was a mistake,” Jason says. “I shouldn’t have done that, and I’m sorry. Happy?”

“I want to make sure _ you’re _happy.”

“I’m very happy,” he replies. _ Lie number four. _“Anyway, should I start walking to a bus station, or were you going to head back to the city today?”

Dick blinks. He’s not very good at pretending to be amicable. At least, not as good as Jason. “Oh. Um, yeah. I’ll go—give me ten minutes,” he says, and walks out of the kitchen, leaving Jason alone in a make-believe world where everything is alright and nobody kissed anybody. 

The car ride is mostly silent. Dick turns on the radio, turns off the radio, sighs loudly. His hair is still wet from his shower, his lips are parted slightly as he stares down the road. And Jason is filled, utterly and completely, with a newfound sense of self-loathing.

Why does he have to ruin everything? Can’t he do anything right? Here was something that made him feel alive, feel _ real, _ and he was too much of a coward to keep it. _ Fuck. _

His thoughts: _ Apologize. Tell him that you want to kiss him again. _

His other thoughts: _ Don’t. It’s better not to get invested in something that will never work out. _

“You live on Briggs, right?” Dick asks.

“Yep,” Jason says. 

_ Apologize. Don’t. Kiss him again. Fuck fuck fuck! _

Dick turns on the radio. An advertisement for car insurance. He turns off the radio, and sighs. “I hope we can still be friends,” he says.

_ Apologize! Apologize! _“Okay.”

“I’m being serious.”

Again Jason says, “Okay.” He thinks about how much he wants to reach out and squeeze Dick’s hand. God. Even as the thought warms him, it makes him feel so vulnerable and weak and awful. They can try to be friends, but it’ll never work out. And something tells him that Dick knows this too.

_ Why do you have to ruin everything? _

“Where do I turn?” Dick asks.

Jason points down the road. “Take a left up there.”

“Across from the gas station?”

“Yep.” _ Apologize! Apologize! _

Dick flips on the turn signal, filling the silence with the _ click click click _of the blinking light. On, off, on, off, on, off. Jason doesn’t know how to drive. Scratch that. He vaguely knows how to drive. For the briefest moment, he imagines Dick teaching him, driving through the hills across the Gotham River, stopping at an overlook while the city lights blink in the distance. How beautiful everything would look, Dick included. How happy Jason would be.

The car stops in front of his apartment building. He remains seated, fingers playing with the seat belt. _ I’m sorry, _he tries to say, but his stupid fucking tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth. 

“Well, we’re here,” Dick offers. He doesn’t move either.

“Thanks for, um, driving me,” Jason says. Now his hand lingers on the door handle, too afraid to pull it, too afraid not to. 

Dick nods. His hands tighten around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry that it didn’t work out last night. Because of the rain.”

“Me too.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

Slowly, Jason shakes his head. “But it’s my fault. I should have checked the weather.”

“I knew the weather was going to be bad,” Dick says, “I just hope that you weren’t braving the rain for me.”

“I didn’t know that I was afraid of the rain,” Jason replies softly.

“I see.”

“I thought I was ready for the weather.”

Dick quiets, then asks, “How does the weather feel now?”

“I don’t know.”

There’s a moment of silence. Dick looks out the window, craning his neck to peer at the sky. “It’ll clear up,” he says. “The weather always clears up.”

“Right.” Jason clears his throat, then forces a neutral face over his own. “I guess I’ll see you around, then,” he mutters, pushing open the car door. Cool air brushes against his skin. 

“See you around.”

Jason pushes the door closed and starts walking. Tries to walk. In truth, he imagines giant screws in his feet, bolting him to the concrete. Even when he moves, each step is slow and aching. And there are the voices in his head, still fighting, only now they’re saying different things.

_ Turn around. Go back. _

_ Don’t. You’ll only make it worse. _

_ Do you really want to throw everything away? _

_ Throw it away before you ruin it. _

He can hear Dick’s car starting up, the rumble of the engine, the slow scrape of the tires over the rough pavement. _ Now or never, _ he thinks. _ Now or never. Now or never. Now or never. _

Fuck it. 

“Wait!” he shouts, scrambling after the car. His chest, his legs, his mouth, they’re all filled with the heavy thud of his heartbeat. Again he shouts, giving everything he has to close the distance between himself and the car. He’s at the tail lights. The doors. The hood. 

His palms slam against the driver’s window. Dick jerks, looks at him, then slams on the brake. The car stops, and is silent.

“What the fuck?” Dick demands, stepping out of the car. “Jason, are you insane?”

“Yes!” he replies, bent over as he catches his breath. “I’m sorry, Dick. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry? Sorry? I could have hit you! _ Jesus!” _ Dick draws his hands through his hair, scoffing. There’s a deep anger in his expression, one that’s impossible to misunderstand, and Jason realizes: he _ hurt _Dick. Of course he did. 

Jason rights himself, looking into Dick’s eyes. Even filled with outrage, they’re beautiful. “I’m a jerk,” he says. “The way I acted earlier...I’m sorry.”

Dick says nothing, only stares. Jason waits, paralyzed, for something, anything. _ Please, _ he thinks, but he doesn’t know what else to add. _ Please speak? Please laugh? Please be angry? Just do something! _

Question: what do you say to the stupid, apologetic boy who just hit your car and, not an hour ago, was acting like the world’s biggest jackass?

Answer: “It’s not your fault, I guess.”

“Of course it’s my fault,” Jason says, face heating. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t be all apologetic. It’s disgusting.”

“Disgusting? _ Disgusting?” _

“Yeah,” Jason snaps. “Disgusting. _ I’m Richard Grayson! I’m so perfect! It’s not your fault, Jason! Not everyone can be as perfect as me! _”

“Well, _ fuck me _ for being a good person! I’m trying to be nice to you, asshole!”

“I know!” Jason yells. “I know I’m an asshole! I’m sorry! I don’t know what else to be!”

“Have you even tried anything else?”

“I’m trying now!” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “Dick, you’re the best person I’ve ever met. I like you, and I’ve never liked…someone like you before, and I guess I didn’t know what to do, so I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

Dick’s face softens. “Oh,” he says.

They stare at anything but each other. Jason chews on his cheek, kicking a rock into a puddle. Then, he sighs. “Will you give me a chance to not be an asshole?” he asks.

“I can do that,” Dick replies.

Relief washes over Jason. He finds himself smiling at Dick, and he doesn’t care that anyone can see them standing at the edge of the parking lot, because he’s too busy thinking, _ not ruined. _ And then: _ but not perfect. _

Jason pictures himself kissing Dick. Pictures them going out together, holding hands, sharing experiences, squishing against each other and _ laughing _ because everything is amazing and they just _ can’t _anymore. And he wants these things, wants them with every fiber of his being, but he’s so afraid because he knows how it ends. It ends like it did with Isabel. 

Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe he can just get better at pretending. After all, Dick looks so handsome all flustered like that, and Jason doesn’t know how anyone can look at this person and not want to kiss them and fall apart at once.

Dick motions at the sky. “Looks like the weather’s clearing up,” he says with a smile.

“Looks like it,” Jason replies. His eyes find the clouds pushing toward the bay, casting shadows over the water. _ I kissed Richard Grayson, _ he thinks. _ I want to kiss Richard Grayson again. He doesn’t have to know that I’m a freak. _

Later, when Dick is gone and Jason is walking toward his apartment, he thinks he feels a raindrop. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a degree in English Literature, okay???? Have to use it somehow.
> 
> Fun exercise for all you creative writing folk: write a conversation between two people in which they're not actually talking about the thing that they are talking about.


	14. Apartment 203

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made a discord channel! There's a few of us talking about pets, comic books, and fanfic. You can head over to my profile for an invite link, or you can use [this one](https://discord.gg/aBQnrTP). Please come say hi!
> 
> On another note, check out my friend's [STAR TREK fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22589773/chapters/53983888)! I'm so proud!
> 
> _Warnings for this chapter: references to drugs, underage drinking, more metaphors_

Sunday afternoon, he wakes up with a headache and hazy vision. The sunlight falling through his bedroom window only makes it worse. Groaning, Jason sits up and swipes at the blinds until he shuts out the intruding brightness. There. That’s better. 

He sits up, and his phone flips off his chest and onto the floor. _ Great, _ he thinks, reaching down—ugh, his _ head _—to pick it up. There are no cracks, luckily, but a few missed messages from people he must have texted sometime last night. 

Unknown: _ I think you have the wrong number. _

Grant: _ I don’t understand what ur saying. _

Virgil: _ dude r u on something? _

Bart: _ lmao what_.

Unknown: _ please stop texting this number. _

Fuck. Jason looks around the room, spotting the bottle of Popov on the floor, along with several pages of messy notes and a half-completed calculus worksheet. He doesn’t remember drinking that much, or at least he doesn’t remember intending to, but he must have. The notes make no sense. It’s like he was trying to write a novel and review it at the same time, all while sprinkling in nonsense sentences about nonsense things. None of it is good.

Crumpling up the paper, he drops it in the trash and shuffles to the kitchen, where he drinks an entire bottle of water with two aspirin. There’s a few microwave meals in the freezer; he grabs a packet of pizza pockets and dumps them out on a plate. Then, because he remembers once again that _ he kissed Richard Grayson, _a warmth spreads over him. 

Good lord, the microwave is slow today.

“You’re up late today,” his mom says from over his shoulder. 

He hums, and rests his head on the counter. So he got up after his mom. That’s pretty low. 

“Are you sick?” she asks.

“No.”

“Oh.” 

Jason lifts his head. There’s still a minute left on the microwave, which is too much. “I had a long night,” he mutters.

“Oh.”

Forty-five seconds. Thirty. Fifteen. The microwave beeps. Grabbing the plate, Jason walks past his mom without looking at her, afraid that she’ll read his thoughts through eye contact. Does she know why he picked up the bottle? Can she tell that he’s kissed a boy?

Maybe she does. His mom takes a seat on the couch with him. It reminds him of how things used to be, before his dad was convicted and his mom’s addiction got even worse: Friday nights, when they used to sit and watch movies on VHS. Dad would stop yelling about money, Mom would play with his hair. 

She doesn’t play with his hair. “Jase,” she says quietly. 

“Mmm.” 

“Were you going to be home all day?”

Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he nods. “I won’t leave you again, mom,” he replies, offering her a bite.

But she shakes her head. “I think you should go out tonight.” 

_ That’s new. _“What?” 

“Honey, please don’t get mad, but…”

“But what, Mom?” Jason asks, more forcefully than he means to. The volume sends a sharp ache through his skull; he winces.

“Tommy said he was gonna bring some friends over,” his mom finishes. “And I know you two don’t get along, so…” 

If it weren’t for his head, Jason would have jumped to his feet. “Mom, you can’t let him come.”

“He promised that he’d be in and out, that’s all.” 

“He’s pulling illegal shit,” Jason says. “He’s gonna get you arrested.”

His mom’s face contorts in anger. “I’m not your father, Jason.”

“That doesn’t mean anything!” he replied. _ Fuck, _that one really hurt. Blinking rapidly, Jason felt himself falling back against the couch, waiting for the pain to subside. 

When he comes back, he sees his mom staring at him. 

“You were drinking again,” she says. 

It’s not a question, so he doesn’t give her an answer. _ And it’s not like you’re in a place to lecture me about drinking, _he thinks, but would never say. It’s not fair to compare them in the first place. His mom lost everything, and he’s hardly lost anything. If one of them has an excuse to get smashed, it’s not him. 

Still, he can’t give her an explanation. So he stands up, drops the plate off in the kitchen sink, and stares out the grimy window. Three stories below, the parking lot stares back. Strange to think that it was only yesterday when— 

“Jase!” his mom calls.

“Fine!” he says sharply. “I’ll put the vodka back.”

“That’s not…” Her brow furrows. “Jason Peter Todd, how much did you drink?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Jesus Christ,” she breathes, running a hand through her long, stringy hair. “You’re going to kill me, I swear.”

“Mom…”

“Don’t ‘mom’ me. Where are my—I need to take my tabs.” 

Something inside him cracks. Jason can feel the reverberations traveling up his esophagus. “You don’t need those. Just—”

“Jason,” she snaps. “Don’t.”

Her tone is enough. Jason shuts up, chewing the inside of his cheek. Then he turns around and marches toward his room. After throwing on the first clean-ish clothes he can find, he shoves his books and shitty laptop into his backpack. He brushes his teeth. He splashes water on his face. As he dries, he can hear the _ clack _of pills shaken around a bottle. His stomach churns. 

Before he leaves, he finds all the loose cash around the apartment—not that there’s much—and hides it in one of his books, knowing Tommy and his goons would never find it there. His mother’s credit cards are next. But it turns out she is still cognizant enough to ask him what he’s doing. 

“Leaving,” he says. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“Where?”

The last thing he says is, “I don’t know.” Then he shuts the door, locks it, and walks down the hallway. 

Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. Sighing, Jason hikes his backpack over his shoulder and takes the stairs, shivering in the unheated, stagnant air. The cement floor is cracked, tagged, and littered with all sorts of wrappers, candy and condom. This is the kind of place where most people expect to be murdered or find bodies, but he knows better. They’re not criminals; they’re just poor. Tommy is the exception and not the rule. 

In the lobby—if you could call a few broken chairs a lobby—Jason reads over the bus times. The bus schedule sucks on Sunday, especially in the afternoon. Given the time, he’d either have to wait forty-three minutes for the 18 bus to the library, or take the 20 bus and walk two miles from the downtown stop. Gross.

Or maybe he should just stay in the apartment and make sure Tommy doesn’t drag his mom into some stupid deal. So what if he gets hit. It’s not like Tommy’s never hit him before. Besides, that would give Jason an excuse to call the cops, and then—

Wait, no. If he calls the cops, they’ll ask why Tommy was there in the first place. And then everyone will get arrested. There goes his education. And whatever he has with Dick.

(I kissed Richard Grayson!)

Chewing his lip, Jason finds himself staring at the list of residents by a call button that doesn’t work. Todd, 308. Jones, 305. Sanchez, 207. Row, 203. 

Row. Why does that sound familiar? Jason can remember hearing that name out loud, but can’t quite orient the memory in his mind. Corner store? No. School? Maybe. Soccer field… 

_ Harper Row, _he remembers. That must be Harper’s apartment. 

Before he realizes what he’s doing, before he has a chance to stop himself, he’s walking back up the stairs. The second floor is identical to his, though the numbers are different and one person keeps a forest of dead plants outside their door. 201, 202… 

_ What am I thinking? _Jason asks himself, staring at apartment 203. 

Ah, fuck it.

Cullen answers the door. He stares for a moment, his confusion plain as day on his face, then he recognizes Jason and his posture loosens. “Oh,” he says. “It’s you.”

Jason waves dumbly. “Um, hi. Is Harper here?”

“Harper’s hanging out with Kyle.”

“Here, or somewhere else?”

Just then, Harper’s voice snakes through the apartment. “Who’s at the door?”

“It’s for you!” Cullen shouts back. Turning to Jason, he throws a thumb over his shoulder. “They’re in Harper’s room.”

Jason’s feet remained rooted to the floor. “So, I should come in?”

“Yep. Don’t touch any of the equipment. It’s still hot.” 

_ What? _he thinks, stepping inside. But Cullen’s words become clear at once. A soldering iron is on their table, as is one of those circuits used for testing conductivity. It seems to have been modified. For what purpose, Jason can’t say. 

“It’s the door on your right,” Cullen tells him. “The one with people in it.” 

“Thanks,” Jason replies.

Harper’s room would be his mom’s room in their apartment, but the space feels entirely different. Her clothes aren’t in a pile on the floor; there are no lipstick smears on the furniture; the air, while stuffy, isn’t saturated with the smell of cigarettes and liquor. The only similarity is the scattering of food wrappers over surfaces. 

On the floor, Harper shuffles a deck of cards. Kyle sits cross-legged beside her.

“Oh hey,” she says, when she sees him. “What’s up?”

Immediately, and for no reason at all, Jason feels his face heating. “I was just…” _ Spit it out! _“I need to be out of the apartment for a few hours, and I was wondering if I could do work here.” Trying to look amicable, he smiles, then adds, “I’ll stay out of your way, I promise.”

Kyle looks up at him. “You guys fumigating or something?”

“Something like that,” Jason lies.

“It’s cool, man,” Harper says, shrugging. “Make yourself at home.”

Oh god, he hates that. All he wants is a little direction—sit there, you can use that, check this out—because it’s so hard being in a new place with people he barely knows and especially with people he used to let his friend make fun of.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Thank you. I’ll just—I’ll be working at your table, if that’s okay.”

Harper pulls a face. “Oof. Yeah, actually you can’t use that space. I’m working on something.”

“What is it this time?” Kyle asks.

“Mind your own business,” she snaps. “Anyway, Jason, do you need a table?”

“No?”

“Cool. You can just sit on my bed, if you want.”

Again, Jason doesn’t move. He’s grateful that Harper isn’t making a big deal out of this, but still. Sitting on her bed? That feels a little too...intimate. But he’s already screwed up with everything once, and it’s starting to feel like a negotiation. The last thing he wants is to seem ungrateful.

“Thanks,” he says, sitting. “Really.”

“No problem.”

“You don’t mind us playing, do you?” Kyle asks. 

“Playing what?”

“Rummy. Wanna join?”

Jason pulls his calc worksheet out of his backpack and gives it a wave. “I’ve got to finish this,” he says. “But thanks.”

Kyle shrugs, and the two of them start playing. Jason watches Harper deal cards, the hypnotic flicking of her wrists as the cards _ woosh _out in front of them, then looks back at his worksheet. 

_ Find each limit at infinity. Round to two decimals if necessary. _

Okay, whatever. The limit of -3ln(2x+1) is… it’s… Jason erases the nonsense from last night and starts working it out on the paper. Or rather, he tries to work it out. Limit, limit, limit. The limit is… 

“You’re cheating,” Harper says.

Kyle shakes his head. “I’m not! Shut up.”

“I swear to god, Rayner. I’ll break your nose.”

Work! Jason needs to work. But his head is still spinning, and if he closes his eyes he sees Dick’s face, and he wonders if he should text him, and Harper is throwing a handful of cards into Kyle’s face, and—

“Are we being too loud?” Kyle asks.

“What?”

“You were staring at us.”

Jason did not realize he had been doing this. “Sorry,” he says. “No. I’m just, uh, thinking.”

Harper points at the worksheet. “What is that, stats?”

“Calc.”

“Oh, sweet,” she replies. “Took that last year. Totally loved it.” 

“You took calculus junior year,” he says flatly. 

“Do you need help?”

Jason shakes his head. “I guess I’m just not in the mood for work,” he mutters.

“Alright,” Kyle says, holding up his cards. “Do you want to play with us?”

Sure. Why not. Jason shoves his things back into his backpack and lowers himself to the floor, resting his back against the front of Harper’s dresser so his tired head can have some support. 

Harper starts shuffling, and the room is filled with the _ thwap thwap thwap _of the cards slipping in between each other. “So,” she says, dealing out three messy piles, “how’s your life been?”

“My life,” Jason repeats. Why is she asking? Sure, he’s in her room, about to play Rummy (How do you play Rummy? He should probably ask before they start), but that doesn’t make them friends. Maybe Harper’s just being nice, but why would she be nice to _ him? _

“Haven’t seen you a lot this last week,” Harper explains. “I’m just curious.”

“We heard you hit that Wilson kid. Is that—ow!” Kyle exclaims, rubbing the spot where Harper’s elbow met his ribcage.

“Asshat,” she hisses.

Jason shakes his head, staring at the floor while the tips of his ears grow hot. “No, that’s true.”

Harper’s eyes go wide. “Wait. Really?”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing,” Jason lies.

Kyle gives him a look. “No offense, but you’re a shitty liar.”

Shrugging, Jason twists his fingers together. He thinks back to the time Harper gave him a ride home from school, the things that she said. _ I wouldn’t spread things like that. Or make fun of you for it. _And they didn’t, as far as he can tell. 

“Fine,” he mutters. “Grant called me gay and insulted my mom. So I hit him.”

“He called you _ gay _ and _ insulted your mom,” _Harper repeats. “Jesus. Is he in middle school or—”

Jason cuts her off. “It wasn’t like that. He…well, I guess he’s convinced that I’m gay, and got mad when I said I wasn’t.” 

_ Except maybe that’s not true anymore, is it? _

“What the fuck,” Kyle says.

“Yeah. _ What the fuck. _Good for you for hitting him.”

“It’s fine,” Jason replies.

Kyle frowns. “No, it’s not. He _ outed _you, dude.”

“He didn’t! I mean…” Jason winces, realizing how ineffective his words are. _ I’m not gay! I swear he didn’t out me! I’m not gay! I’m not! _ Who the hell would believe that? “...He’s wrong. I’m not _ gay,” _he finishes, taking his time with the word so he sounds less like a dumbass. 

“Doesn’t matter. Grant Wilson is an asshole.”

“Yeah,” Harper says, nodding. “Gay, bi, trans: It’s all ‘not straight’ to straight people. And if you are straight, he’s still an asshole. Believe me, I’d know.”

“What do you mean?” Jason asks.

Flipping a card between her fingers, Harper pulls an annoyed face. “Freshman year, I told Stacy Longoria that I liked girls. Next thing I know, the whole JV team thinks I’m a lesbian.”

“...but you’re not a lesbian?” he finishes, figuring that’s where the story’s supposed to go.

“Actually, I’m bi,” Harper says, tapping one of the buttons on her jacket. Pink, purple, and blue stripes stare back at him. “But try telling that to a bunch of straight girls.” 

“What did you do?”

She shrugs. “I just let them think whatever. Dating’s, like, the last thing on my mind right now, so I don’t think it’ll ever come up again.”

“Uh huh,” Jason says.

“And maybe I am a lesbian. Who knows.”

_ Wait, what? _At once he finds himself stunned by the informality of it all. The world told him that being queer, coming out, was supposed to be a Big Fucking Deal. Since when could people just change their minds without losing it? 

“How do you know?” he blurts out. 

Both of them stare, clearly half-amused. But they don’t laugh. At least they don’t laugh.

Kyle clears his throat. “Well, there’s not really one answer—”

“I know that,” Jason clarifies, feeling stupider than ever. “But when do you _ know? _ Does a label just _ plop _into your lap or something?”

Plop? _ Plop? _Oh god. He’s not hungover; he’s still drunk. 

Now Harper starts laughing. “Sometimes, yeah. I mean, when Cullen was twelve, he came up to me and said, ‘I don’t like girls. I like boys.’ And I said, ‘you’re gay, don’t tell dad.’ Boom. Done.” 

Kyle looks at him. “Why do you ask?”

_ Why do you think? _Jason scoffs, and rolls his eyes. “Just curious,” he says, laughing awkwardly. “There’s just, a lot of labels, you know? It’s hard to keep track of all of them.”

“Which labels confuse you?” Harper asks, fixing him with a look. 

“I didn’t say that they confuse me. I just said that there’s a lot.” Again, he laughs. “What happened to ‘gay, straight, or bi?’”

“Sexuality’s not like a spectrum,” Kyle interjects. “It’s more like, um…” 

Harper finishes for him. “Pizza.”

That’s new. “Explain,” Jason says. 

“Okay, so…” Harper scoots closer to him, grinning. “If you like vegetable pizza, you like boys. If you like sausage pizza, girls.”

“Why isn’t sausage for boys?” Kyle asks.

Harper waves him off. “Shut up. Anyway, some people like sausage _ and _ vegetable pizza. They may like one more than the other, but they still like both. And then other people might like pepperoni, pineapple, or barbecue. And _ then _there are some people who have no preference. They just want pizza.” 

Jason stares, unable to follow anything anymore. Weren’t they about to play a card game? What happened to that? “Uh huh,” he says slowly, itching to move the conversation elsewhere. Nothing Harper’s said comes close to answering his questions, because now he can’t stop wondering what kind of pizza he is—what kind of pizza he wants?—and it doesn’t change the fact that he’s attracted to people, but also not attracted to people. And now he’s hungry, too. 

Kyle, obviously missing the confusion on his face, adds, “And some people don’t like pizza at all.”

A lump forms in his throat. Picking up a playing card, Jason runs his fingers over the glossy surface. “Who doesn’t like pizza?” he mutters. “Everyone likes pizza. It’s fucking pizza.”

“I don’t,” Harper replies. “I mean, I like pepperoni—vegetable—god damn. I’m bi, okay? But most of the time I’m not attracted to people…that way.”

_ That way, _ Jason thinks, despite knowing deep down what it is she meant. He stares at his hands, wondering if the tension he feels is more or less what he felt before they started talking. Part of him wants to say, _ I know, and I think I may be that too, _ while another part wants him to curl up and cry in relief, and yet another is thinking, _ no one will ever love me. _Didn’t Harper say she’s not dating anyone? Is that why? 

So many questions. God. He must seem like a dumb fucking asshole. A _ straight _fucking asshole. Maybe he should—he has to—

“I kissed Dick Grayson,” he mutters. 

There’s a pause. Then Kyle bursts out laughing.

“Holy fuck. Really?”

Jason’s face burns, but he’s able to muster up a scowl. “Tell anyone, and I’ll rip your tongue out.”

Kyle holds up his hands. “No no, I’m just… Dick Grayson. Wow.”

“Don’t tell Cullen,” Harper says.

Cullen calls from down the hall. “Don’t tell me what?”

“Mind your own business, twerp!” Turning back to Jason, she asks, “Do you like him?”

“I kissed him,” he repeats.

“So?” Kyle replies. “I’ve kissed lots of people without _ liking _them, ‘cause kissing fucking rocks.” 

“Alright, damn. I guess…” Jason scrunched up his face, pretending to be weighing something out in his mind. Besides, he doesn’t really know Dick well enough to _ like _like him, so it’s not like the answer is easy. “I guess I do. A little. I don’t know.”

“That much, huh?”

“When did this happen?” Harper asks.

“Friday night.”

“And you’ve never…with a boy…?”

He’s blushing again. “You can tell, huh.”

“No offense,” Kyle says, “but I never thought you and that blonde chick made a good couple. I remember because I saw you at prom and thought, ‘that guy’s gonna throw up.’”

Jason did throw up, but later. Maybe a few weeks ago he would have been hurt by the statement, but for some reason, he finds it funny now. “You know, she broke up with me because she thinks I’m gay,” he says. As the words leave his mouth, he finds that he’s laughing. Why? Who knows. It just feels good to laugh. 

Harper laughs too. “Really? Damn.” 

“Yeah. If she finds out about Dick, she’s gonna feel so fucking vindicated.”

“We won’t tell anyone, for real,” Kyle tells him.

“Honestly,” Harper says, “it’s kinda flattering that you even told us. Makes me feel like a queer guru.” 

Jason raises an eyebrow. “A guru?” 

“You know. Fount of queer wisdom, dispenser of advice, looking so androgynous that I turn everyone gay. It’s the ultimate goal, really.”

Kyle nods in earnest. 

They’re weird. The way they talk about themselves, about being queer, it’s unlike anything Jason’s ever heard or read. It’s weird. And yet, at the same time, it’s also kind of fun. Like loving a book, and knowing all sorts of information about it, and wanting to share with everyone the interesting tidbits that he finds. 

Oh shit. Books. He still has work to do. 

And then, for the second time that day, Jason thinks, _ fuck it. _

He holds up a card. “So, are we still gonna play, or…?” 

“Huh? Oh yeah, sure,” Harper replies. “You didn’t take that one from Kyle, did you? You’re only supposed to have seven.”

“Seven. Right. I’ll, uh, here,” he mutters, slipping it between the rest of the cards and drawing out another for Kyle. 

She pushes the cards toward him. “A’ight. You go first, since you’re new.” 

Jason stares. He considers faking it, but figures that strategy will fail real quick. So he comes clean. “What are we playing?” he asks.

Kyle laughs. “Oh, Rummy’s real fun, dude. Here.” Flipping some cards over, he starts listing off a series of rules, which seem long and complicated, made worse by the small caveats Harper keeps throwing out. 

Then suddenly, Jason gets it. Just like that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will come a day when I cool it with the metaphors. But that is not this day. This day, I metaphor. 
> 
> Seriously though. I love to talk to people! Please don't hesitate to [say hello](https://discord.gg/aBQnrTP).


	15. Text Messaging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a new chapter, my dudes! 
> 
> Those of you who read my other fics know this, but I'm gonna go ahead and repeat it here: I’m going to be publishing much less frequently until the end of April—my last semester of grad school has caught up to me and I can’t devote nearly as much time to fic as I would like to. In other words, I will only be posting when I can (aka probably once a month). In the meantime, feel free to contact me by email or on [Discord](https://discord.gg/aBQnrTP)!
> 
> _Warnings for this chapter: panic attacks, internalized shit.___

“Who are you texting?” Harper asks.

Jason shoves his phone back into his pocket and pretends to be interested in the people walking through the hallway of the C Building. Except it’s lunch period, and the only people in the building were teachers and the students who didn’t want to sit in the quad—namely, the three of them. “No one,” he says. “I mean, just Dick.”

Kyle’s eyebrows raise, but he says nothing. 

“What?” Jason asks. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“I’m not as dumb as I look. You were thinking _ something.” _

“Do you really want me to say it?”

No, he doesn’t. Jason huffs and turns to the ugly sandwich he brought for lunch. Peanut butter and butt-ends of bread. When he got home Sunday night to the stink of booze and cigarettes, he hoped that Tommy and his dumbass posse hadn’t raided their kitchen, left their oily fingerprints over the things he worked so hard to clean. To his shock, they hadn’t. But that didn’t matter all that much anyway. They hardly had anything. 

Harper bounces her foot on the stairwell. “What are you talking about, anyway?”

“Nothing important.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“We’re friends,” Jason insists, pulling out his phone and wagging it, like that would prove anything. “Friends text each other stupid shit.”

Both of them regard him for a moment, their expressions neither disagreeable or agreeable. Then Kyle mentions something about a computer science exam, and Harper gets all excited. Jason, meanwhile, finds himself re-reading the conversation on his phone.

_ I cleaned your fingerprints off my car today, _Dick had said.

_ ...I’m sorry? _

_ Meh. My car needed to be washed anyway. _

_ Why are you telling me this lol. _

_ IDK. Guess I was just thinking about you :) _

At the bottom of the screen, three flickering dots appeared. Jason’s heartbeat filled his mouth, wringing the moisture from his tongue. Why is this a feature? Who thought this was a good idea?

_ Hope that’s okay, _Dick says. 

Swallowing the dryness in his mouth, Jason starts to write something back but pauses, letting his fingers hover over the screen. He could say, _ I don’t know if I’m ready for this kind of thing. _ He could say, _ Yeah of course that’s okay. _ He could say, _ I think about you all the time. _ Or he could just say, _ Thinking is forbidden. _

Yeah. That last one works. The other ones...he doesn’t know about the other ones. 

_ Thinking is forbidden. _

_ Oh no, _ Dick writes back. _ Please don’t have me arrested. _

_ Too late. The police are on their way. _

_ Noooooooooo. _

Kyle pokes him in the shoulder. “What’s so funny?” he asks. 

Jason didn’t realize he had been smiling. “You have a lot of questions, huh,” he said. 

“No offense, Nobody, but I’ve only known you for a few weeks. Of course I have questions.” 

“Like?” 

“Like, what’s so funny?”

Jason scowls, and Kyle holds up his hands and laughs. 

“Alright, alright,” he says. “Forgive me for wanting the _ hot goss. _I’ll stop.”

Harper nods in earnest. “But you’ll tell us if there’s anything juicy, right?”

“I already regret having said anything,” Jason replies, knowing that isn’t really true. But something tells him that the others know that too, so he just leaves it there. 

_ Anything you say can and will be held against you, _he tells Dick, then sets his phone aside. He doesn’t look at it when it buzzes again. 

After the bell rings, he splits off with Kyle and heads to English, moving slowly because Kyle walks as fast as an old woman with a walker. Whatever. It’s nice to have someone, he supposes.

The thought settles like a rock inside him. He doesn’t know why it releases a certain sadness, but that doesn’t stop the feeling from spreading from his temples to his hips. In thirty seconds, he no longer carries the residual happiness from his conversation with Dick. 

They make it to class just as the second bell rings. He offers Kyle a small smile as he takes his seat, trying to seem like anything but what he is. In return, Kyle gestures: _ you okay? _Jason shrugs like he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. And because Kyle isn’t an asshole, he seems to let it go. 

It’s twenty-five days until the A.P. exam, and their teacher is still quizzing them on vocabulary. Someone passes a sheet to Jason; it’s filled with all types of questions about all types of literary words. Metaphor. Synecdoche. Apostrophe. Enjambment. On the back, another god damn essay.

“You’ve got all class period,” their teacher assures them. “Take your time.”

As soon as his pencil touches the paper Jason’s phone vibrates against his thigh. He itches to read the message, but instead buries himself in his work. 

** _Pathos: _ ** _ appeal to emotion. _

His phone buzzes again. And again. Then it stops. He breathes a sigh of relief, and continues on. 

** _Assonance:_ ** _ the repetition of similar vowel sounds. _ ** _Foil: _ ** _ A character who acts as a contrast to another character. _ ** _True,_ ** _ “Pretty ugly” is an oxymoron: _ ** _False,_ ** _ “red sky” is not an example of synesthesia. _

He pushes on, answering the questions without much thought. How could he give them much thought? All he can think about is his phone, no longer buzzing, and the messages that it must carry. It’s Dick who’s texting him; it has to be. What is he saying? Is he talking about his car again? Is he thinking about Jason? 

_ Fuck, _he wants to look at his phone. But he doesn’t. He can’t. 

_An example of a symbol is: _**_The conch shell in _****Lord of the Flies.** _The line “So Eden sank to grief” contains an example of: _**_allusion. _**

(What did Dick say? What is Dick saying?)

His essay’s shit. _ Analyze the effect of blah blah blah in Boring Poem Transcribed Below. _Whatever. Jason has a strong grade in the class, and it’s not like this test matters, anyway. 

Slipping out from the uncomfortable desk, Jason hands the test over to his teacher and tries not to squirm. “Can I, uh, go to the bathroom?” he asks. 

Mr. Hall nods, but extends her hand. “Phone, please.”

“What?”

“Mr. Todd, I have one more class taking this test today. You know the rules. Phone, please.”

_ Shit. _Reluctantly, he drops his phone off on her desk and shuffles down the hall, thinking about nothing except Dick. Then he hates himself for how obsessive he seems. He’s Jason Todd. Since when does Jason Todd act like a schoolgirl with a crush? Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

After a bathroom break’s worth of time passes, he goes back to the classroom and takes his phone back from Mrs. Calloway. _ Don’t look, _he tells himself, if only to prove something dumb. But he looks, anyway. 

Last unread text: _ If that’s okay with you. _

If _ what’s _okay with him? 

Jason’s leg bounces throughout the rest of the class session, a tangible expression of the fluttering in his chest. He has a sinking feeling that he _ knows _what Dick was saying, and he prays that he’s wrong even as he hopes he isn’t. God damn. Feelings are hard.

When the bell rings, he jumps from his seat faster than Bart Allen on the soccer field. Gathering his things, he nods once at Kyle, and then he’s practically racing to his locker. 

(What did Dick say? What is Dick saying?)

He’s fumbling with his phone at his locker someone comes up behind him. 

“Hey,” Grant says. 

Oh, god. All thoughts of the texts immediately vanish from his mind. Jason grits his teeth and shoves his phone into his backpack, zipping it up with too much force. He ignores Grant completely. Just slips right past him. 

“Hey,” Grant says again. “Jason. Come on.” 

Jaw clenched, Jason walks toward his calculus classroom, paying Grant no attention, not even when he grabs his wrist. He merely shakes him off, catching only the smallest look at Grant’s face. Huh. He doesn’t seem mad, though frustration simmers below the surface. 

Fuck him. 

“Jason! Jesus fucking Christ!”

“What?” Jason finally says. He whips around to face his friend, already imagining his fist in Grant’s face. “What do you want?”

Grant frowns, but he doesn’t seem mad. It’s more like he’s trying to work out a math problem in his head. “I just… Fuck. I shouldn’t have said those things. The other day.”

For a split second, Jason considers letting it go. Letting everything fall back into where it was before. But whatever amiability he is feeling is quickly overtaken by red hot anger. _ How dare you, _ he thinks, remembering a hallway full of stares. The shame. The fear. _ How _ dare _ you. _

“Duh,” Jason snaps. “Fuck you.”

“I’m trying to apologize.”

“I don’t care.”

Grant grabs his arm again. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks. “I said that I’m sorry. Why are you still mad?”

“First of all,” Jason begins, ripping Grant’s hand from his arm, “you can’t just apologize and expect me to be happy, not after the things you said. Second, you hardly even apologized! And third—” He pauses, weighing his words carefully. Then that all goes out the window. _Fuck it._ “—what I am is _none _of _anyone’s_ fucking business, so you can take your fake apology and _shove it.” _

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he walks away, his head much lighter than it was before even as his gut is tighter. _ This is fine, _ he thinks, breathing deeply. _ At least we talked about it. At least it’s over. _

And then, over and over again until it’s all he can think, all he can hear: _ I can’t believe I said that. I’m so fucking stupid. _

“Jason?” 

His head snaps up. He didn’t realize that he had made it into calculus, that the class was five minutes deep and waiting for him to answer. “Sorry,” he says. In his hands, the worksheet he finished over the weekend. They must be going over the answers. “What question?”

The class snickers as Ms. Adams shakes her head and says, “Number four.” 

Oh. “Negative infinity.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive infinity?”

“Mr. Foley? Care to help out Mr. Todd?”

“It’s zero,” Richie says as a blush spreads over Jason’s face. _ Dumb jock Jason Todd strikes again. _He can’t do anything right, can he?

Only after class, when he’s sitting outside the locker room and feeling like shit, does he start to feel alright again. Grant _ deserves _to be chewed out. Hell, he deserves worse. And maybe it’s a good thing that they’ll see each other at soccer practice, because if Grant is at all decent, the guilt will eat him alive. 

In his backpack, his phone vibrates angrily. And everything comes flooding back.

“Fuck,” Jason breathes, scrambling to grab his phone. _ Idiot, idiot, idiot. _How could he just forget like that? Screw Grant for helping. 

_ Forget I ever said anything lol, _Dick says. The text was sent thirty seconds ago. 

Heart pounding in his mouth, Jason opens up his messages and reads them backwards, feeling increasingly horrid with every word. 

**3:03:** _Forget I ever said anything lol_  
**3:03:** _I’m sorry._   
**1:28: **_If that’s okay with you._   
**1:25:** _I’m also happy to just hang out and get coffee or something._   
**1:14:** _It’s 100% okay if you say no. _  
**1:13: **_Obviously no pressure. I just want you to be comfortable. :)_  
**12:56: **_Feel free to say no._  
**12:55:** _Totally different topic, but I was wondering if you wanted to go out sometime?_

Oh fuck. 

Question: What do you do when a boy you kissed and kind of like asks you out, except you didn’t answer and now he doesn’t want you anymore?

Answer: First you have to consider whether or not you’re happier as his friend or as something more. Then you wonder if he hates you now. _ You _hate you now, since you should have looked at your phone in class and let him know your feelings, which are...which are… Fuck it. In the end, you have a miniature panic attack outside the boy’s locker room. 

Jason’s breath comes out not quite in sobs, but definitely something short of wheezing. He’s in control of enough of himself to realize that he’s overreacting, that all he needs to do is apologize for not answering his phone and explain that he doesn’t hate Dick, he could _ never _hate Dick. But it feels like the world is getting smaller, and he can’t move his fingers to right a reply, so he just leans against the wall until he can breathe again. 

_ In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. _

Finally, his senses clear. It doesn’t seem like anyone saw him, which is good—after last week, he’s pretty sure he’s half a mistake away from being labelled the class weirdo. So he inhales. Exhales. And starts to write.

_ <strike>So sorry! I was in class. I didn’t mean to make you worry.</strike> _

_ <strike>Please don’t think I hate you.</strike> _

_ <strike>I’m okay with getting coffee or something.</strike> _

_ <strike>I’d love to go out with you!</strike> _

God damn it. He tries again:

_ Oh god, I’m so sorry. What a time to ignore my messages, haha. I’m not mad at you, I promise :) _

It’s bad. It’s really bad. Plus, he kind of sounds like a fuckboy. But he’s put it off long enough, and every second he doesn’t hit “send” is another second where Dick thinks he _ hates _him. So he sends it. And waits. 

“You going to practice?” someone asks. Virgil.

Jason sighs deeply, watching his immobile screen. Dick isn’t texting back, not yet. “I guess,” he mutters.

“You probably should. Coach won’t play you at all if you keep missing practices.” 

“I know.”

“And senior night is next Thursday.” 

“I know.” 

Virgil holds up his hands. “Alright, alright. Whatever, man,” he says. “I’m just here to remind you.” 

Jason hums in reply, slipping his phone into his pocket. A watched pot, he supposes. There’s nothing he can do but wait, and if he’s not staring at his screen, it would be so much easier. “Coming,” he says, hiking his backpack over his shoulder. 

As they lace up their cleats, Virgil starts up again. “You know, it feels like ages since I’ve seen you.”

“I see you every day,” Jason replies.

“Yeah, but like, in passing.” 

“Okay?”

Virgil stands up and bounces on his feet, as if testing the strength of his laces. “Why don’t you hang out with us anymore?” he asks. “One day you just started disappearing during lunchtime.” 

“I’ve got work to do,” Jason lies. It’s an obvious one, and Virgil doesn’t even pretend to accept it. 

“If this is because of Grant…”

He doesn’t have time for this. “It’s fine,” Jason says quickly. He grabs his things and checks his phone. Nothing. _ Come on, Dick, _ he thinks, even though he’s almost grateful for the time. What will he say when Dick writes back? _ Does _ he want to go out with him? Well, obviously, he _ does, _ but does he _ really? _

Fuck! 

The entire soccer practice, Jason keeps running back to check his phone. After an hour, there’s still no message from Dick. Nausea starts to take hold of him as he imagines the worst case scenario—scenari_os, _ plural, because there’s a million horrible things that can happen next, the worst of which is Dick not wanting to see him again. _ Oh god. I’ve ruined everything, _ he thinks. He wishes desperately for Dick to show up, so that he could run over and explain exactly what he’s feeling, which is first and foremost that _ I don’t want to lose you. _

Oh, so _ now _he thinks of a good reply to Dick’s texts. 

“Phone down, Todd,” Coach Clover calls. 

“Sorry, Coach,” he mutters, afraid that if he speaks too loud his stomach will fall out of his mouth. He joins the rest of the team in their cool-down dripps, all the while thinking: 

_ Text me back text me back text me back text me—_

After, Harper taps him on the shoulder. “You’re still texting Dick?” she asks. 

Jason stares down at his phone. “In theory.”

There must be a look on his face, because Harper holds her hands up and steps away. “Don’t worry. I won’t ask.”

“Thank you.”

“But if you want to tell me, I’m all ears.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jason replies dryly. 

“Cool cool.” She swings her keys around her fingers, nodding to the beat of something Jason can’t hear. “You want a ride back?”

His grip tightens around his backpack until the fabric threatens to rub the prints from his fingers. The last thing he wants is to be home, where the smell of cigarettes sinks into his clothes and the walls seem to close in around him. Air. He needs fresh air. 

Shaking his head, he says, “Thanks, but I’ve got something goin on.” It’s a better lie than he told Virgil, which is probably why Harper doesn’t look suspicious. “See you around?”

“See ya.”

And then he’s alone again. Well. At least it’s good practice. Given his track record with relationships, he should probably get used to it.

Jason reads Dick’s texts again. _ Totally different topic, but I was wondering if you wanted to go out sometime? _The words settle like rot inside him, but still he reads, again and again and again. He doesn’t know why. Maybe he just wants an excuse to hate himself. 

Closing his eyes, he lets the spring air blow over him. The layer of sweat built up from practice makes it feel a lot colder than he knows it is. Goose bumps appear along his arms. To keep from freezing, he crosses his arms toward his chest and begins to walk down the street. 

_ Text me back text me back text me back. _

He walks his bus route, pausing at each stop in case his stupid self changes its mind. But it doesn’t. At any moment, he could burst, and he really doesn’t want to burst on a bus. 

_ I was wondering if you wanted to go out sometime? _

Stupid. So unbelieveably, incredibly stupid. Maybe he would have been better off if he never stepped foot in the Rainbow Youth Center, if he just went on pretending to be normal until he grew old and fell apart. He can picture himself now: on the bus back from soccer practice, wondering if he should ask Chelsea Stewart or Tima Whaley to prom, texting Grant about the crazy old woman on the corner of Eighth and Bethel. How uncomplicated everything would have been. How complacent he would have stayed.

He must have walked twenty minutes by now. The clouds are just beginning to turn orange, and the evening fog has started its slow march over the city. Gotham probably looks beautiful from afar, the type of city to watch on a distant hill with someone you care deeply for, holding hands and bathing in the warmth of each other’s presence.

All of a sudden, Jason wishes he could take back his last text. He wishes he said, _ I would be happy to go out with you. I really like you. I’ll never be an asshole again, I promise. _ So what if people talk. So what if it complicates things. Hell, he doesn’t even care that he’s probably asexual and that Dick might not want him if he finds out. At least then he’d be losing Dick in the future instead of right here, right now, when he’s so _ lonely. _

He walks farther, thinking all the while, _ I’ll get on the bus at the next stop. _He walks past Tenth Street. Eleventh Street. Two blocks down and to the right, Lucas is probably taking down materials. 

And then, at last, Dick texts him back. 

_ Oh wow I’m a total idiot. I totally forgot about school. _

Jason exhales all the pressure built up inside his chest. So casual. How can he make it so casual? Frowning at the screen, he refills his lungs and types out a reply. _ You forgot about school? _ he writes. _ Lol that’s hilarious. _

(Dumbass. Tell him how you feel!)

Right. The pressure once again builds inside him. Before Dick can reply, and before Jason can change his mind, he writes, _ Does your offer still stand? _

Send. 

Those damn gray dots. _ Please, _ Jason thinks, waiting for the tiny heralds to fuck off and deliver the response. _ Please please please—_

_ Which offer? _

_ The first one. _

_ Can I ask you again, though? _ Dick asks. _ I kinda want to start over lmao. _

Jason’s heart stops. _ Yeah, sure. _

_ Do you want to go out sometime? :) _

And this time, Jason doesn’t linger on an answer. He knows exactly what he is going to say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I love you all.


	16. Dinner Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **S T O P**
> 
> Check out this [perfect art](https://callipygianflamingo.tumblr.com/post/612610940809199616/some-fanart-doodles-of-morimaitars-amazing-fic) by [Balloonacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balloonacy). Go leave at least **three** lovely comments that detail just how amazing it is. 
> 
> Okay, now you may continue.
> 
> _Warnings for this chapter: some references to drugs, internalized queerphobia, brief references to domestic abuse_

Jason blinks, and the week is almost over. Which is strange because, as far as he could tell, every passing second felt slower than the last. Since Dick's text on Monday, he couldn't look at a clock without feeling the agony of seconds stretching into minutes stretching into hours. But then it is Thursday evening, and he's in uniform on the soccer field, and he can only stand there and think, what happened?

Did the week actually happen? It must have, and yet... 

As he stretches on the sidelines, Jason plays it back in his head:

Hanging out with Harper and Kyle. Taking a test in Spanish. Texting Dick. Reading _Pride and Prejudice_ for the fourth time. Starting _American Psycho_. Putting down _American Psycho_. Texting Dick. Tommy slamming him into a wall. Tommy laughing. A fat bruise forming on his hip. Taking a test in calculus. Texting Dick. Thinking about Dick. Getting drunk. Thinking about kissing Dick. Thinking about going out with Dick. Wondering what the hell he's gotten himself into.

Damn. Guess the week really did happen. 

“Todd,” says his coach.

Jason’s head snaps up. “Yeah?”

“Head to the sideline. You’re going in for Patterson.”

He blinks back his surprise. With all the practices he's missed, Jason figured he'd sit out all games except maybe Senior Night. But hey. The game gives him something else to focus on. Besides, the Metropolis Mets is a team full of bright shining pricks. Jason can't wait to push some of them into the mud.

“Sure,” Jason mutters, and hops over to where the ref stands, bouncing on his toes. His jersey flutters against his skin. The next time the ball goes out-of-bounds—a stray kick, their ball—there’s a sharp whistle. 

“Chase!” he calls, waving the defender off the field as he assumes his position. A good call. Chase looks like a dog on a hot day. 

Behind them, on the stands, someone lets out a whoop. It takes Jason a moment to realize they’re shouting for him, and when he does, his organs leap inside his ribcage. But he can’t look, not now. The whistle blows, and he puts all his attention into the ball. Run, drift, cover, run. Virgil accepts a pass from Bart—kicks it—off a defender’s shin—out-of-bounds again. 

He breathes. He looks.

There’s a mess of green hair in the stands. Kyle. He’s waving furiously at him, as if Jason could somehow miss him among the fifty people sitting in bleachers that could seat five-hundred. 

Something pleasant flickers inside Jason. Kyle didn’t have to come; he _ chose _ to. He could have gone with Harper to see the girl’s team kick ass in Metropolis. And yeah, maybe metropolis is a long fucking ride and their high school is _ right here_, but still. 

Jason gives Kyle a little wave. It’s the last thing he does before his gaze drifts a little to the left and—

His heart stops. Starts. Stops again. 

He turns back to the field and pretends he didn’t see. So much for not thinking about Dick. Dammit. Why didn’t Dick give him a warning? 

The rest of the game, he can only think one thing: _ don’t fuck up. _ The ball is kicked to him: _ don’t fuck up. _ He chases down a striker: _ don’t fuck up. _ He’s got the ball between his feet: _ don’t fuck up. _ He jumps for a header: _ don’t fuck up! _

_ Don’t fuck up don’t fuck up don’t fuck up don’t fuck it up. _

They win, thank god. After the game, Jason slinks off the field as soon as Coach Clover lets him, all-too-aware of his mud-caked legs, grass-stained uniform, and the god awful smell coming from his shin guards. 

“Dude!” Kyle wraps his arms around him and squeezes. He’s stronger than Jason would have imagined. Sure, there’s maybe an inch difference between them, but Kyle has got to be twenty pounds lighter. Maybe there’s more to him than weird queer kid.

Jason peels Kyle off of him. “You really don’t want to be near me right now,” he says, gesturing to himself.

“Please. You should smell Harper after she comes off the field. Jesus. You’d think she was decomposing or something.”

“Uh huh.”

“Anyway.” Kyle smirks. “It was nice to see you play without getting balls to the face.”

Jason chokes on his own tongue. “Wha—what?”

“You remember. Harper totally _ nailed _you, Nobody. I thought your face was a ball magnet.” 

_ Oh. Right. _

Jason huffs. “Cool it with the balls,” he says. 

Kyle looks like he swallowed a hiccup. He snorts, throws a hand over his mouth, then waves at someone over Jason’s shoulder.

_ Fuck! _

“Catch you tomorrow, Nobody,” Kyle whispers. He pats Jason on the shoulder, winks, and strolls out to the parking lot. 

Alone, Jason turns around, trying to look like he doesn’t know who’s standing behind him. That he isn’t still terrified of the way he feels. That he could be genuinely happy without feeling conflicted about it.

“Hey,” Dick says. Oh god, he’s brought Roy and Stef too. 

“I’m a real mess right now,” Jason blurts out. _ Aaaaand _he fucked it up. The evening air has a sharp bite, but his face could heat the entire school and the field lights are blinding. No way they can’t see his face.

“Are you kidding?” Stef’s face breaks into a grin. “You played great! Granted, last time I saw you play anything, you left in an ambulance. But still.”

“Um, thanks.”

“You’re good at kicking balls,” Roy says, nodding in solidarity.

_ Please let me die,_ Jason thinks. Across the field, he sees Grant staring at him, then at Kyle and Dick, then back to him. When he meets Jason’s eyes, Grant scowls and turns the other way. 

“Well,” says Dick. He smiles gently, hugging his arms against his chest. The field lights make his eyes gleam like the open ocean, and Jason nearly falls apart. “I wanted to catch one of your games before the season’s over. You’re, uh, pretty good out there.” 

Roy laughs. “A regular Casanova, isn’t he?”

Jason doesn’t say anything. He’s too busy wishing the Earth would swallow him up and spit him out in his apartment, where he can talk to Dick without an audience. 

To his credit, Dick seems to realize this. “You want some help with that?” he asks, pointing to Jason’s soccer bag.

“Um…”

Dick snatches the and throws it over his shoulder, taking off toward the parking lot. “Stef, Roy, get the car started. C’mon, Jay.” 

Jason waves dumbly at the other two. Stef, already prancing off, doesn’t notice. Roy gives him a wink and a pair of finger guns. _ Weirdo. _

He makes a mental note to spend more time with Roy.

As he follows Dick, Jason tries not to check him out. Tries and fails. God damn. No one has a right to have an ass like that. It almost makes him angry.

“Hey,” Dick says, after he catches up.

Jason is able to muster up a “hey” in return. 

“So I was wondering if you still want to, um—”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. It’s just, we haven’t really talked about it.”

“I guess.”

Dick stops and stares at him. “You don’t seem comfortable,” he says.

Jason shrugs. “I did just run around in the mud for an hour.” 

“You’re a smart guy, Jay. You know what I mean.” 

“Alright.” He sighs and kicks a pebble down the parking lot. It skids into darkness. “It’s just—you know—I’ve never—not with—you know.” 

“Oh.”

“But I do want to,” Jason adds. “It’s just…_ new_, and um, I don’t know.” 

_ Fuck. _ When did he become so _ stupid? _

Dick sighs deeply. He seems to be chewing on the inside of his cheek, staring at nothing and everything at once. “Yeah,” he says. “I know. It’s like you went from a blip on the radar to the only thing people see. Same to _ different. _ I’d say it gets better but…” He shrugs. “There’s always someone staring, you know?”

The way he says it makes Jason break a little. “What about tomorrow?” he asks suddenly.

“What?”

“Tomorrow,” Jason says again. “I’ve got work but…after, maybe?”

“Are you sure?”

Jason pauses. He _ is _sure; this he knows to be wholly, undeniably true, the same way he knows that water is wet and squares have four sides. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel creeping fingers of apprehension crawling up his throat. The things people will say.

_ Hey, is that Jason Todd on a date with Dick Grayson? I always thought he was a little gay. No wonder Isabel dumped him. _

Still, with Dick standing there, trying to hide his dumb smile, looking like a fucking model, holding Jason’s soccer bag like it’s more than just a thing from the discount bin at Goodwill, Jason thinks maybe he doesn’t have to be nervous. Maybe he’ll be happier, _ realer, _ than he’s ever been before.

“I’m sure,” he says. “Really sure.”

Dick stops trying to hide his smile. “Oh, good,” he breathes, his whole body loosening as if only the tension had been holding him upright. “It can be super casual, I promise.” 

“I know.”

“Like, ‘just friends’ casual, in case you change your mind.”

Jason has a feeling that neither of them really want that. The fact that Dick even said it makes him want it even less and want _ this _—whatever this is—even more. “It’s fine,” he says, digging the toe of his cleat into the asphalt. He can’t look at Dick. Not right now. If he does, he’s afraid he’ll burst. His chest is already light and hot, as if filled with sunlight.

“So… Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Pick you up after work?”

Oh, Lucas will have _ things _to say about that. Nodding, Jason asks, “Can I have my bag back?” 

“Oh! Right.” Dick hands the bag over. 

Jason clutches it until he can’t feel the tips of his fingers. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Winking, Dick says, “Looking forward to it.”

_ Me too, _ he thinks. Giving one last smile to Dick, he considers, briefly, asking for something to hold on to—a hand, a promise, a body— but he _ can’t_, not here, not when he still knows what he knows about himself. It’s best not to fall too hard. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow.

Jason waves once, then heads off into darkness. He can feel Dick watching him, feel the soft heat of his gaze, and he can’t stop the buoyant feeling that spreads throughout his body. _ Thank you, _he thinks. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking, but he feels like it should be done.

Later, after he is home and showered and his mom is asleep, Jason sits on his bed and stares out the window. It’s too hard to sleep. His mind races between nervous excitement and the heaviness of questions. 

_ What am I doing? _ he thinks. _ I don’t deserve this. _ And then: _ But I really, really want this. _ And then: _ Dick is too good for someone like me, and as soon as he realizes it, it’ll be over. _ And then: _ But Dick is smart, and if he sees something in me, then maybe I’m not worthless? _

He draws his knees into his chest. It’s times like these when he remembers the bottle of Klonopin his mom keeps in the bathroom. Some deep, dark thing inside him says, _ just one, _ and he hates that the voice is even there, _ hates _it. This is supposed to be a good thing. Why can’t he be happy? 

Groaning, Jason falls back onto his pillow and pulls the blankets over his head. Breathe in, breathe out. Think about Dick’s smile. Feel a little better. 

When he finally falls asleep, he falls asleep holding a pillow to his chest.

***

And now it’s five-thirty on a Friday evening. How did that even _ happen? _He doesn’t even know how to feel. He might throw up. 

Jason loads the last of the scaffolding board into the back of a truck, then heads over to his locker. He didn’t get too dirty during work—thank god—but he figures its best to look nice. Dick will look nice, better than nice. That much is obvious. Jason should at least try to be ten percent of what Dick can pull off. 

(Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.)

“What are you doing?” Lucas asks.

“Changing,” Jason says. He pulls on a fresh pair of socks, rolling the fabric over his ankles. “Why?”

“You don’t usually do that.” Lucas sits down next to him. “You’re not checking out other jobs, are you?”

“Mmm. I’ve got a hot interview at seven.”

His boss grins. “Sounds sexy,” he says. “What is it? Barista? Bus Boy? Tudor? Ooh!” His eyes light up. “Young, naïve secretary to a hot state senator.” 

_ Naïve. _ Jason scoffs. “I’m not—is that a reference to something?”

“No. I’ve got an active fucking imagination.”

“Isn’t that nice.” He stands, brushing his hair back, trying to make it look like he wasn’t wearing a hard hat for the last few hours. Nope. He can tell that it’s awkwardly flat in the back, pressed against the curve of his skull. 

Lucas watches him for a moment, saying nothing. Then, finally: “Grayson?”

His face burns. Jason opens his mouth to speak, then decides that it is useless. 

“Good for you,” Lucas says, clapping him on the shoulder. Jason pauses at the touch, then decides that he doesn’t mind it. It’s relaxing. Comforting. “Go have fun,” his boss continues. “You deserve it.”

“Thanks, Lucas.”

“Really. I mean it. Go be a young adult.” 

“I will.”

A strict look settles over Lucas’ face. “But be responsible,” he says. “Don’t have too much fun. So help me, if I see your name on the evening news…” 

Jason smiles. “That’s me. Always stirring up trouble.”

“Don’t I know it.” 

In his pocket, his phone vibrates. Dick, probably. Or maybe it’s Harper or Kyle, inviting him to one of their weird so-bad-it’s-good movie nights. Either way, the clock at the work site tells him it’s 5:40. Dick will be here any minute. 

Jason runs his fingers through his hair again. For a moment he pictures asking Lucas— _ how do I look?— _but that would be stupid. He’d never hear the end of it. “I’ve got to—I should probably be waiting out front,” Jason says. 

“‘Kay.” For once in his life, Lucas doesn’t look like a giant asshole. He looks… understanding, maybe? “Let me know if I have to beat Grayson into next century. I’m not afraid of pissing off Bruce Wayne.” 

“Doesn’t surprise me,” he replies. “And you won’t have to.” 

“I know.” Lucas pushes him toward the exit to the work site. “Go. Get. You’re making me feel old, just standing there.”

_ You’re, like, thirty, _Jason thinks, but he’s already walking out. The evening air brushes against his face as it trails behind cars. So close, so close… 

His nausea returns. _ Fuck. _ What if Dick decides he made a mistake? What if Jason does something stupid, and Dick never talks to him again? What if Dick wants to kiss him? What if he wants to do _ more _ than kiss him? What then? _ What then?!? _

By the time Dick pulls up in his hatchback, Jason doesn’t think he can stand anymore. He slips inside the car, relieved for the seat, even if it is next to—

“Hi,” Dick says. He’s wearing a button-up with jeans, nothing special in theory, except he makes it look so good that Jason thinks his tongue is swelling. 

“Hey.”

“So, what do you want to—”

“You pick,” Jason says quickly. He can’t think right now. It’s best not to think.

Dick pauses a moment, then says, “Sushi?”

Ugh. With his stomach? Still, Jason says yes, in the hope that he’ll feel better. It’s a close drive, at least. They hardly have to be confined to the car. 

“Been here before?” Dick asks as they walk into a restaurant. It’s a smaller place, nothing grand on the outside, between a candy shop and a breakfast cafe. The words I LOVE SUSHI are written in red above the door. 

“Nope,” Jason replies. He feels a little better now. They’re just two guys eating sushi. It’s so easy. 

“Oh, it’s great. Free appetizers.” Dick holds the door open for him—Jason’s gut clenches—and smiles. “You’re gonna love it.” 

“It’s sushi. What could go wrong?”

Dick laughs. “If you go to the wrong restaurant, a lot.” 

“Oh yeah. Please bring that up before we eat.” 

“I’m just saying.” His eyes sparkle. “This place isn’t like that. I promise.” 

“Sure. I’m trusting you, Grayson,” Jason says. He tries to look sly when he speaks, like his heart isn’t pouding and he does have the capability to semi-flirt, actually. And he _ can, _he knows he can, because when he was first going with Isabel he knew what he was doing. Knew when to keep his eyes on hers, knew when to tease, knew when to smile brightly and when to relegate it to his eyes. What’s so different about this?

Nope. He shouldn’t answer that.

The hostess seats them across from the sushi bar, which is good. Gives Jason something to look at when he can’t hold eye contact for too long.

“How was your day?” asks Dick.

Look into eyes. Smile. “Fine,” he says. “We’re prepping for A.P. exams, mostly.”

Dick makes a face.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Dick replies. He shakes his head; plays with the soy sauce pitcher. “It’s just, you’re in high school, you know?” 

“Yeah?”

“You don’t feel like I pressured you to be here, right? I just want to make sure.”

There is a pause, then Jason understands what he’s saying. “Oh. No. Not at all. Besides,” he continues, thinking, _ tease him, _“I could totally beat you up if you try anything funny, so I’m feeling zero pressure.”

Dick’s mouth opens in mock indignation. “Excuse me?” 

“Please. You can bench what? One-twenty? Squat two-hundred?”

“How _ dare _you?”

Sitting back in his chair, Jason allowed himself a grin. “Protest all you want, college boy. Do you wake up with back pains yet?”

“Shut the fuck up, baby face,” Dick laughs.

There is a pause. Then a cough, from the waitress. “Anything to drink?” she asks.

Oh. Jason feels himself sinking into his skin. “Just water,” he mutters. “Thanks.”

Dick asks for the same, then leans forward, still playing with the soy sauce pitcher. At his sides, Jason’s fingers _ tap tap tap _against his jeans. Maybe he should hold Dick’s hand. 

_ No I shouldn’t, _ he thinks. _ That’s way too much. _

“Anyway,” Dick says. “I like the dragon roll. And the spider roll. The spicy tuna’s pretty good too.”

“You pick for me,” Jason says. For the second time, he figures it’s better not to think. Let Dick do the thinking. 

“Are you sure?”

“You’ve been here before, and I’ll eat pretty much anything, so yeah. I’m sure.”

“Anything, huh?” 

Jason shrugs. The truth is, he can’t really afford to be picky, but Dick doesn’t need to know that. The last thing he wants is a reason to give Dick to pay for him _ again. _Jason probably owes the Waynes a hundred bucks by now—thousands, even, if he includes his adventure with alcohol poisoning. Which, yeah, he should. 

Oh. Something dark stirs in the pit of his chest.

When the waitress comes back with water and little seaweed salads, Dick orders two things, but Jason isn’t paying attention enough to remember what they are. He’s too busy tearing the corner of his napkin into tiny pieces. 

“Can I ask you something?” he says finally.

Dick raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure you just did.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah I do. Hit me.”

Jason tears off another piece of napkin, letting it join the growing pile by his water glass. “Why did you do all that stuff for me? Before, I mean. You hardly even knew me.”

A look passes over Dick’s face. Guilt? Embarrassment? Whatever it is, it disappears quickly. “Oh,” he says, shrugging. “I like to help people. That’s all.”

“Is it?” Jason replies. It’s not that he doubts Dick’s response; he just wants to make sure it isn’t _ pity. _ Because if it’s _ pity, _then how can he know that Dick isn’t pitying him now?

The look returns. Dick stares at his seaweed salad, his face reddening. “Okay. Maybe I thought you were cute.”

Jason blinks. “Wait. What?”

“It’s just—maybe I had a crush, and maybe I went a little overboard.”

“Huh.” He smiles into his seaweed salad, hardly able to control the fluttering in his chest. _ Richard Grayson had a crush on me? Richard Grayson had a crush on me! _

“I’m sorry,” Dick says.

“Tsk tsk, Mr. Grayson.” Jason looks up, raises an eyebrow. “My affections cannot be bought.”

“That was not my intent, Mr. Todd,” Dick says. His affect is so ridiculous that it draws a soft bout of laughter from Jason’s chest. 

“You’re accent needs work,” he says, still smiling. His face is starting to ache. “That’s like, _ Dracula _Keanu bad.”

Dick’s eyes brighten. “You’ve seen _ Bram Stoker’s Dracula?” _

“Unfortunately. Kyle and Harper made me watch it.”

“Nineties vampires were something else. Have you seen _ Interview? _”

Jason says that he hasn’t. His smile won’t go away, even when he tries to force it down. And just like that, it’s easy again. He isn’t thinking anymore because he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t want to. If he starts thinking, he knows he’ll ruin it. 

After, Dick tries to pay the bill, but Jason cuts in. “Please let me split it,” he says. He doesn’t add anything else.

Dick seems to understand. “Right. There’s no buying your affections.”

Jason adds his card to Dick’s. The waitress comes by and scoops up the bill without looking at them. He stops smiling. _ She’s judging us. She thinks we’re freaks. She’s going to tell everyone about the pair of homos in I LOVE SUSHI. _

Then, a calmer voice: _ No, no she’s not. There’s a lot of people in here. She’s in a hurry. _

Clearing his throat, he says, “I’m a modern man.”

“Oh, I can tell,” Dick replies. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“For one, you’re wearing pants, and not a toga.”

Jason shrugs. “Fair.”

“You also use tools and written language, so it’s fair to say you’re not a neanderthal.”

“I don’t know” Jason replies. “I’m kind of like a caveman in the mornings.”

Dick laughs. “Aren’t we all?”

He is about to reply when the waitress comes back, smiles, and sets down the bill. “Have a nice evening,” she says, and slips off to be with another customer.

_ See? It was nothing. You freak out over nothing. Stop it! _

“Anyway,” Dick says, snatching the bill and scribbling down a tip. Damn, he’s fast. “You want to walk around a bit?” 

_ Yes. _

Jason shrugs, staring at the floor. “Sure,” he mutters. 

The evening air is clear for once. It’s not as chilly as it was last night, but then again Jason isn’t wearing a soccer uniform covered in sweat. Or maybe his face is like his own personal furnace. As they walk aimlessly down the street, Jason watches Dick’s hands, wondering what would happen if—

“Thanks,” Dick says suddenly.

“For what?”

“Coming tonight. I had fun.”

“Oh.” If his face gets any hotter, it’s going to melt off. “Thanks for inviting me.”

Dick rubs the back of his neck like a man fighting an itch. “But you’re sure you wanted to do this, right?”

The voice in Jason’s head says, _ He doesn’t think you really like him. You fucked it up, like always, you little— _

Before he can stop himself, Jason reaches over and grabs Dick’s hand. His heart pounds in his mouth, and he’s forgotten how to breathe, but he doesn’t let go. Their hands fit together perfectly. “For the millionth time,” Jason says, “I’m sure.”

Now Dick is blushing too. He squeezes Jason’s hand gently, saying, “I was just checking.”

“Well, stop.”

“Okay! Okay.” 

They walk together, hand-in-hand, Dick smiling and Jason trying not to fall apart at the seams. _ What am I doing? What am I doing? I can’t be this happy; something must be wrong. _But nothing wrong comes to mind. Not right now. 

After about thirty feet, Dick stops. “Can I kiss you?” he asks softly.

The air leaves Jason’s chest. “If you want to, then okay,” he replies.

“I want to.” A pause. “Do I need to ask if you’re—”

Jason kisses him. The world is strangely absent around them. No cars, no trees, no orange light descending over Gotham. Dick’s lips are slightly cool and salty, like the ocean breeze. There’s no tongue. The whole thing is over in a second, maybe less. 

Now they’re both blushing furiously. After a moment, Dick asks, “I didn’t taste like fish, did I?” 

“Maybe a little. Did I?”

“Maybe a little.”

“At least we’re even,” Jason laughs. He aches to kiss him again, deeper this time, but the world has returned and he knows he probably shouldn’t, not here. But then again… 

Fuck it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Me:** *vaguely mentions Anne Rice in a fanfic*  
**Also Me:** *sweats profusely*
> 
> **For those who missed the announcement above:**  
[Balloonacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balloonacy) has created [perfect art](https://callipygianflamingo.tumblr.com/post/612610940809199616/some-fanart-doodles-of-morimaitars-amazing-fic) for this fic. Go leave her lots of comments. That is a direct order.


	17. Bloody Nose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of today, I am one year closer to the grave. Enjoy my fics while I'm still young enough to see the computer screen.
> 
> This chapter is for my buddies on Discord. You guys keep me sane during all of this craziness :)
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** Underage drinking, abuse, violence, homophobic language

After, he turns it over in his head. 

_ I went on a date with Richard Grayson, _ he thinks. _ I went on a date with Richard Grayson, and I kissed him, and I liked it. _

And that’s where he stops. Jason tried to go farther once, when he first got back to his apartment, but half a thought in and he was feeling sick. When he doesn’t pay attention, the half-thought comes back. It happened when he got ready for bed. It happened when he got into bed. And it’s happening again, now that he’s out of bed and curled up on the kitchen floor. 

_ I’m not straight, _he thinks. 

It’s such a dumb, idiotic thought. Part of him wants to laugh at the simplicity of it all. Obviously, he’s not. Not after he _ went on a date with Richard Grayson and liked it. _But if he keeps going, if he really thinks about what it means—well. That’s why he isn’t in bed anymore, isn’t it.

Taking another, long swig of vodka, Jason lets his head fall back against the cabinets. It’s cold in his apartment. _ No heat after ten, _ his dad used to say. _ You want to be warm, get in your fucking bed. _

Damn. He must be drunk already, if he’s thinking about his dad. At least it’s better than the alternative. 

Jason stares at the ceiling, feeling his head grow heavier by the second. His vision is blurred, as if washed in vaseline. When he thinks about Dick, the apartment isn’t so cold anymore. 

God damn Dick. He just has to be so perfect, doesn’t he? Perfect hair, perfect eyes, perfect smile. And he’s a good kisser, too. Jason runs his tongue over his lips, remembering the cool saltiness of Dick’s mouth. _ Fuck _ he’s a good kisser. Better than Isabel. When Isabel kissed Jason, he felt like she was pitying him. Like, _ you’re kind of a freak, hope this helps. _ Of course, it all makes sense in retrospect. She was probably like, _ I think you might be gay because you don’t like having sex with me, hope you get better. _

But Dick doesn’t know about that. That’s why he can still kiss Jason like he means it. And when he finds out… 

Another swig. 

Jason doesn’t want to lose him. Especially since Dick would be all nice about it. He can hear him clearly: _ you’re a really nice guy, Jason, and I want the best for you. Can we still be friends? _

Well. At least he wouldn’t call Jason straight. 

Without warning, the kitchen lights flicker on. Jason covers his eyes, squinting in the sudden brightness. The second he sees his mom’s sweatpants, he hides the vodka behind his back.

“Hey,” he mumbles.

She yelps. “Jesus _ fuck _, Jason,” she says. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

What the hell _ is _he doing here? “It was too hot in my room,” he lies. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” she mumbles, reaching for a bottle of gin. “I swear to god, you’re going to kill me.”

“Mom, it’s past midnight.”

“Watch your mouth,” she snaps.

Jason bites his tongue. She’s right. He’s a fucking hypocrite, anyway, telling her not to drink when he’s halfway sloshed already. Maybe he doesn’t even deserve Dick.

Strike that. He _ definitely _ doesn’t. 

His mom pours a quarter glass of gin, pauses, and adds a splash more. “We have tonic water?” she asks.

“In the fridge, I think.”

“Hmm.” 

He watches her search through the fridge, noticing how sluggish her movements are. Xanax, or maybe Klonopin. He’s lost track of the little orange bottles she keeps in her dresser drawer. Orange bottles, orange bottles. It’s Tommy’s fault. Or maybe it’s his fault. She was like this before she met Tommy. 

“Mom,” Jason says.

She pulls out the tonic water and struggles to open the cap, twisting and tugging until it finally pops off with a hiss. “What do you want?” she says sharply.

“You shouldn’t. Not with pills.” 

His mom slams her glass down on the counter, and he jumps inside his skin. “Fuck, Jason!” she cries out. “What did I _ just _say about talking back?”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“You’re always sorry.”

He wonders if he should apologize for that too. But his thoughts are slowing down, and decisions are way beyond him. 

His mom downs half her glass in one gulp. “You need to be strong, Jase,” she says, wiping her mouth on her tee shirt. “Your dad was a son of a bitch, but at least he had a backbone.”

_ She’s right, _Jason thinks. If he had a backbone, he would have kicked Tommy out of their lives ages ago. He would have put his mom through rehab. And he wouldn’t be so scared of being with Dick. 

_ I’m not straight. _

Fuck. Tears push at the edges of his eyes. If Tommy finds out… 

“Well?” his mom demands.

The first hot, sticky tear spills down his cheek. “I’m trying,” he says. “I’m trying. I’m working and I’m working and I’m…I’m gonna do the right thing, Mom. Always.” 

Something passes over her face. “Oh,” she says softly, slowly. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” 

Jason starts crying harder. It’s the vodka. That crap screws with his emotions. If he were sober, he wouldn’t be crying. He wouldn’t be _ weak. _

His mom kneels down to the floor, shushing him as she strokes his hair with her free hand. He presses himself against the cabinets, feeling the smooth surface of the bottle push against his spine. _ Don’t look at me, _he thinks. 

“Here,” she says, offering him her glass. 

He stares stupidly.

“It will help your nerves,” she said. “You’re almost eighteen, anyway.” 

_ I am eighteen, _Jason thinks, but doesn’t have the mind to tell her. He also doesn’t have the mind to pretend he doesn’t know how to drink: he takes a large sip without flinching. At least his mom is too out of it to notice.

“There. Better?”

He wipes his face on his shirt. “I’m fine, Mom,” he says, forcing himself to smile. 

“I know how to be a mother.”

_ Grow a backbone. _Licking his lips, Jason says, “I wish I could spend more time alone with you. But you, um, you’ve been hanging out with Tommy a lot, and—”

He stops when he sees her brow furrowing. “Go back to bed, Jason,” she replies curtly, standing. Before heading back to her room, she refills her glass with gin. The door closes with a soft click. 

Groaning, Jason pulls the bottle out from behind his back and climbs to his feet. His whole body aches like he’s been cramped inside the trunk of a car. It takes him a few seconds before he feels stable enough to go to the sink and replace what he drank with water. It’s the cheap stuff, the shit his mom grabs when she’s already gone. No one will notice.

When he finally falls back in bed, he curls up into a ball and tries not to think. It doesn’t work. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees his last conversation with Dick play out in his head:

_ “I had fun tonight,” Dick said. _

_ “Me too,” Jason replied. _

_ “You want to go out again sometime?” _

_ “If you want to.” _

_ “I do, actually,” Dick said, smiling. _

_ “Really.” _

_ “Well, someone needs to teach you how to kiss.” _

_ Jason grinned. “Ouch.” _

_ “What can I say? I’m taking one for the team.” _

_ “Poor you.” _

_ “Yep,” Dick said. “It really, really sucks.” _

God. Jason wishes Dick could be with him right now. What he wouldn’t give to sit and talk with someone about all the shit in his life. _ My mom’s an addict, _ he would say. _ Her dealer is going to kill me, _ he would say. _ I feel like everything I do is wrong, _he would say. And Dick would hold him close, and wipe the tears from his face, and kiss his temple, and his lips, and his jaw, over and over again until Jason’s mind goes blank. 

Except that’s not what would happen, is it? Because they would be alone in his room, on his bed, and the moment Dick kisses him Jason would freeze or panic. Freeze and then panic. And even if he didn’t, even if he kept a cool head and was able to kiss Dick and touch him and love him like he wanted to be loved… 

Well. Like Isabel said. Doesn’t matter what he feels in the moment if he shuts down after. Maybe Dick _ would _accuse him of being straight. 

_ Fuck, _Jason thinks, curling into himself. Every so often, red and white lights wash over his bed. He can’t work up the energy to close the window shades, so he doesn’t. He just lies there, staring out the window, listening to distant sirens and wishing he could be strong.

***

He spends most of Saturday throwing up. Dick texts him something cute, once or twice, and Jason does his best to text something cute back. Kittens or ducklings or some shit. He doesn’t need to bring Dick down with him.

Sunday, he wakes up to the sound of a door slamming. Then another. Someone is walking around the living room, and he doesn’t think it’s his mom. Great.

Groaning, Jason throws his pillow over his head and squeezes his eyes shut. Maybe it’s just a quick thing. Maybe it’s their landlord. 

Maybe. Probably not.

He heaves himself out of bed with a sigh, digging his fists into his eyes to chase away the last remnants of sleep. Hunger is an emptiness in his belly. It’s past one. About time he got up anyway. 

There are four of them sitting in their dining area, which is really just a table behind the sofa. One of them looks up at Jason.

“Shit,” he says. “It’s a kid.”

Tommy laughs around the cigarette in his mouth. “He’s not a kid,” he replies, looking directly at Jason. “Are you, boy?”

It feels like a trick question. Jason doesn’t answer.

“Told you,” Tommy says to the others. “He’s well-trained. Well, mostly.” 

_ Fuck you, _ Jason thinks, walking into the kitchen. _ Fuck you fuck you fuck you. I’m watching you, fucker. _

Ripping open the package of a protein bar with his teeth, he wolfs it down quickly, then peels an orange and eats that too. He can feel the men’s eyes on his back, Tommy’s especially. It makes the hair on his neck stand on end. 

Jason turns around with a sigh, wiping juice from the orange on the back of his arm. “Can I help you, gentleman?” he asks.

“You? No,” Tommy replies. 

“That’s not what I was asking.”

“Well, that’s what you said.”

_ Jesus Christ. _Jason tries again. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought you said he was trained,” one of the men mutters. 

“Jason, Jason, Jason.” Tommy shakes his head, clicking his tongue. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, exhales the smoke in Jason’s direction. “How many times do I have to tell you, we _ don’t _want a little cocksucker. If you’re looking for some homos, try somewhere else.” 

Jason clenches his fists until his nails dig crescents into his palms. His face burns. The words _ I’m not straight _fall like knives against his skull. “Real clever, Tommy,” he snapped. “You’re a regular wordsmith, aren’t you.” 

Tommy’s face darkens. “Watch it, boy.”

“Oh wow. Gonna beat me up in front of your friends? That’s nice.”

The rumble of a chair scraping over the carpet. All of a sudden Tommy is towering over him, his brow contorted in an ugly sneer. “I don’t have to beat you,” he hisses. “You’re a smart guy, yeah? You know where you stand on the food chain.” 

_ Grow a fucking backbone. _

“Do I?” Jason replies. “Get out.”

There is a moment where no one speaks. Maybe the dumb bastard wasn’t expecting him to be so blunt about it. 

“I said—” Jason directs his eyes toward the men sitting at the table. His heartbeat trembles on his tongue. “—get the fuck out. All of you.”

None of them moves. Tommy looks like he’s about to burst out laughing. The sight only quickens the anger in Jason’s chest. _ Fuck you fuck you fuck you. _

“I’m not afraid to call the cops,” he adds. He tries to push past Tommy, if only to escape the smell of beer and gasoline, the smoke dripping from the cigarette. It’s choking him, falling down his throat and into his lungs. The longer he stays, the hotter it burns. 

A meaty hand yanks him by the collar, throwing him into the stove. His right knee slams into the door, and a sharp ache rolls up his leg. A dirty frying pan clatters to the tile. 

“Go ahead,” Tommy sneers. “Call the fucking cops. And then what? What do you think they’ll find in your mommy’s room?” 

_ Fuck. _“She doesn’t want you here,” Jason lies, grimacing as his knee begins to throb. It’s incredible he didn’t shatter the oven door. “If you hit me—”

His face explodes in pain. Something hot drips from his nose, falling into his mouth. Copper. Blood. He didn’t even see Tommy pull his arm back. 

Laughter. Jason cups his hands over his nose, glaring at the three men. He wants to shove broken glass down their throats. He wants to push them out the window. He wants to punch Tommy’s face until it’s nothing but meat and bone. He wants to _ scream. _

“Go on,” Tommy says, pointing toward his mom’s door. “Tell her your side of the story, and I’ll tell her mine. We’ll see who’s out on the streets first.”

“Fuck you,” Jason snarls. His face is pounding. Suddenly he wants someone to hold him. He wants _ Dick. _

Tommy grins. “That’s what I thought,” he says, turning back to his asshole friends. “When we need to extinguish our cigs, we’ll let you know.”

_ Fuck you fuck you fuck you. _

Holding his nose, Jason walks back to his room, not caring that blood is dripping onto his shirt, not caring that they are laughing at him, not caring that he’s a stupid piece of shit who should have kept his mouth shut. _ I can’t be here, _he thinks, throwing on his shoes. Can’t be around Tommy. Can’t watch his mom fall apart. Can’t be alone in his room thinking about just how worthless he is. 

In a minute he’s in the stairwell, his phone against his ear and a wad of paper towels on his nose. “Come on,” he mutters, running down the steps. “Come on, come on. Please.” 

Doesn’t matter what he is. Doesn’t matter if he’s asexual, or imbalanced, or crazy, or just plain broken. Doesn’t matter what Dick thinks of him in the future. What matters is _ now. _

“Jay?”

His whole body loosens at the sound of Dick’s voice. “Let’s go somewhere,” Jason says quickly. “Anywhere. I just—I need to get out of my apartment.” 

“Um, I’m at work—”

“That’s fine,” Jason says, stepping onto the second floor. 213, 211… “I’ll meet you there.

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. See you in a bit.” 

“‘Kay,” Dick says. “See you in a bit.” 

Ending the call, Jason stops in front of door 203 and raps his knuckles on the wood. Fake wood. Whatever. “Harper,” he calls. “Harper, if you’re in there, it’s Jason.” 

A moment, and the door opens. Harper does a double-take when she sees his face. 

“Shit,” she says. “What the fuck happened?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It’s not broken, is it?” 

Jason doesn’t think so. “Look,” he says, “I’ll pay you to drive me somewhere. You know Boilermaker? The burger bar?” 

She pauses. “You want to go to a burger bar?”

“Yep. I’m…” _ Fuck it. _“...I’m meeting Dick there.”

“Uh huh.” Harper raises an eyebrow. “Sure you don’t want to get cleaned up first?” 

“How bad am I?”

“Pretty bloody.” 

“Is it on my clothes?”

“No.”

“Great,” he drawls. “Can you drive me or not? I’ll pay you.” 

“It’s cool, man,” she says, grabbing her keys from a bowl by the door. Leaning back toward her apartment, she shouts to her brother. “Be back in a bit, Cull!”

And then they’re leaving. 

“So,” Harper says, pulling out of the parking lot. “You want to tell me what happened?”

Jason pulls the paper towels away from his nose. The bleeding’s stopped. “Nothing happened.”

She says nothing, but her face says that she doesn’t believe him. 

“It’s been a shitty morning,” he mutters.

“Did your mom hit you?” she asks, so suddenly that Jason doesn’t know how to react. “Because you should tell someone, if she did. I know it’s hard, but it’s for the best. I would know.” 

“My mom doesn’t hit me,” Jason says at last. “She would never hit me. She doesn’t do that.”

Harper quiets. “Okay,” she replies, and doesn’t press any further. 

Time passes. As they get closer to the restaurant, Jason realizes he’s being an asshole again. “Thanks for your concern,” he mumbles, crumpling the bloodied paper towels into a ball. “I’m sorry that...you know.” 

“Eh.” She shrugs. “My dad was a rat bastard, yeah. But if he wasn’t, I’d still be living in a shitty apartment with him and Cullen. Now I get to live in a shitty apartment with _ just _Cullen.”

Jason thinks about the difference between their apartments. Same floor plan, different attitude. “Your apartment’s not shitty.”

“Well, it’s not fucking Buckingham Palace, is it.”

“Right.” He sighs. “How do you—”

“I make robots,” Harper says. “People pay a lot of money for them. You’d be surprised.”

“Robots.”

She pulls into the Boilermaker’s parking lot. “Yeah, robots. I post pictures on my Insta. BlueLuvsBots. Check it out sometime.”

“I will,” Jason replies.

“Sweet.” The car lurches as it comes to a stop. “That’ll be five dollars, Todd.”

He reaches for his wallet, only to be stopped by a quick hand.

“I’m kidding,” she laughs. “Go have fun with Mr. Grayson. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

His face is red again. “‘Kay.”

“You’re covered in blood, by the way.”

“I know.”

“You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

Jason steps out of the car, huffing. “Thanks for the ride, Harper,” he says, and shuts the door. He doesn’t wait to see if she watches him walk inside. 

After he walks through the doors, the hostess starts her spiel, then stops suddenly when she sees his face. “Sir,” she says. “Are you—do you—”

“I’m fine,” Jason mumbles. He tosses the crumpled-up wad of paper towels in a nearby trash can. “Is...is Dick here? Dick Grayson?” 

Now her face falls into something suspicious. “Why?”

“He’s my...he’s my friend. It’s got nothing to do with my face.” Jason knows what he looks like. Big, angry kid. Dumb jock. Everyone here probably thinks he’s looking for a fight. If only they knew the truth. 

Well. Not the _ truth _truth. 

“Oh,” the hostess says. “Um, follow me.” 

She leads him to a booth near the back, opposite from where he sat with Lucas and Andrew a few weeks ago. Funny. It turns out Lucas was right about the whole _ he likes you _crap. 

Of course he was. He’s Lucas. 

“This is Dick’s section,” the hostess explains. “I’m sure he’ll be out in a sec.”

“Thanks,” Jason mumbles. He taps his knuckles against the wooden table, eyeing the baseball game playing over the bar. Nope. He’s eyeing the row of liquor beneath the television. Something churns inside him. If only he had a fake ID. 

“Jay! You’ve—fuck.” Dick leans over the table, lifting Jason’s chin with gentle fingers. A warmth spreads over his face. “What happened?”

“I wanted to see you.”

“So you hit yourself in the face?” Dick smiles, but his eyes are filled with worry. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Worth it,” Jason says, and it is. God, Dick’s just so perfect. Just being here, just feeling the smallest touch of his fingers on his face, fills Jason with a buoyancy he didn’t know was possible. For a second he wishes time could stop, and he could just sit in a bloody heap and stare at Dick forever. At least that way they would never end.

Dick’s fingers are still lingering on his face, hot and kind and perfect. They slide off gently, hesitantly, and all back to his side. “How about this,” he says. “There’s a clean shirt in my car. I can go on break in a few minutes. Sound good?”

Jason nods. “Good.”

“Great.” Dick smiles again, this time with enthusiasm. “Give me five minutes. Bathroom’s back there. Maybe get some of the blood off your face in the meantime?”

He’s so nice to put it that way. Jason nods again, sliding out of the booth and walking into the men’s room. His nose isn’t broken, but it isn’t pretty. Blood forms a dry waterfall from his nostrils down to his adam’s apple. The collar of his shirt is stained red. 

_ Fucking Tommy. Fucking Jason and his stupid fucking mouth. _

Splashing warm water on his face, he grabs more paper towels and begins wiping off the blood. The water runs pink, then pink-ish, then clear. He dries himself off, and returns to the booth.

The time passes slowly. Too slowly. Every second Dick is gone is another second Jason has to worry, another second he has to think, _ I’m not straight. _After some time—a minute, an hour—he just wants to drown himself in vodka or Jack or gin and get it all over with. 

And then Dick is back. He’s still wearing slacks and a button-up, but his apron is gone. His hair falls in soft waves around his face. Jason is struck by a sudden urge to jump up and kiss him until he can’t tell where he ends and Dick begins. 

“There you are, handsome,” Dick says, grinning. 

Jason scoffs. He can feel the tips of his ears going warm. “Shirt,” he mumbles, walking toward the door before anyone sees him looking like a dumbass with a crush. A _ gay _crush.

Fuck.

The car is near the edge of the parking lot, where everything smells like heat and oil. Dick fumbles around in the backseat before pulling out a wrinkled black tee shirt. Gotham High, Class of ‘14. “It should fit,” Dick says. “I got it a few sizes larger to use as a ‘catch-all’ shirt, you know.” 

“Yeah.” Jason tucks the shirt between his knees and, quickly as possible, starts to tug off his own. He’s vaguely aware of Dick’s eyes trailing down his chest, which only makes him work faster. Throw shirt over head. Pull down. Straighten sleeves. 

_ Fucking idiot. _

“Thanks,” he mumbles, throwing his bloodied shirt over his shoulder.

“Want to talk about it?”

Not him, too. “No,” Jason says. “I just want to hang out.” 

Dick checks his phone. “Well. I’ve still got twelve minutes. What do you want to do?”

“I dunno.”

“That’s helpful.”

“Thanks.”

“You hungry?” 

“Not really,” Jason says. 

“‘Kay.” Dick pauses. He seems like he’s trying not to smile. “If I tell you something, will you believe me?”

_ Fuck, _ Jason thinks. It could be anything. Maybe he knows. Maybe he’s about to say just how much he cares for Jason, just not like _ that. _

Still, he nods. 

“You’re really fucking hot,” Dick says. 

Jason blinks. “What?”

“Do you want me to say it again? I can. You’re hot, Jason. And you know I’d never lie to you, so...” Dick bites his lip in a way that makes Jason’s stomach turn. 

“You...you too, I guess,” he mutters in reply, too stunned to really think.

“I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, Jay.”

He nods.

“I hope I didn’t…” Dick furrows his brow. “You’re cool with that, right?” 

Jason looks Dick in the eyes, studies the deep, painful blue of his irises. They’re so compassionate. So _ good. _If everyone looked at him that way, then maybe he wouldn’t be the giant fuck-up that he is. 

“Yeah,” Jason says. “I’m cool with that.” 

“Great. I just had to say it, you know?” 

“Does it make up for me being a bad kisser?”

“A little.”

“I’ll take it,” Jason says, his lips twitching upward.

Dick smiles furtively. “You could still use some practice, though.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “I could?”

“Yep,” Dick replies. He’s so close that Jason can smell his shampoo, the hints of sugar on his sleeves. If he kisses him now, will he taste like salt or Coca Cola? Mint? Chocolate?

_ Enjoy it while it lasts. _

Suddenly his hands are on Dick’s shoulders and he is bending to kiss him. Coca Cola. He’s not falling, but he’s falling all the same. Dick’s hands are on his waist. His mouth parted Jason’s lips, and like a switch Jason felt everything he had never known. The warmth of another person is extraordinary. Jason holds on as long as possible, inhaling his shampoo, his skin, losing track of his memories before that point. Who even is Jason Peter Todd? What did he do, before he started kissing Richard Grayson? 

Then they are parted. His whole person is on fire.

“Better,” Dick says, biting his lip again. “You’re getting there.” 

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“Jason?” Not Dick’s voice. Softer. Feminine. 

His whole body seizes. 

On the sidewalk, three pairs of eyes are staring at them. The blue ones are wide, shocked. And then they’re almost smug.

Isabel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? People wanted some angst. And I must give the people what they want.
> 
> Stay safe out there, y'all. Wash your motherfucking hands.


	18. Being Honest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Insert something here]
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** references to abuse and underaged drinking, straight people being straight people.

It might have taken him ten seconds to unfreeze. Or maybe it was ten hours. All Jason knows is he stood there, seeing everything: himself, Dick, Isabel, Isabel’s friends, the street, the burger bar, his face, Dick’s shirt, Dick’s car. The whole city was silent. And then Isabel was walking away, huddled between her friends like it was mid-December and icy winds were stinging their faces red. 

And then he can move again.

“Wait,” Jason says, too softly for anyone but himself to hear. He can feel Dick reaching for him, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. “Wait!” he says again, running after the trio. “Isabel! Isabel, wait!” 

Behind him, Dick is saying his name. Jason lets it slide off his shoulder blades. _ Doesn’t matter, _ he thinks. _ Doesn’t matter. _ It’s as if he is programmed to follow Isabel, and only Isabel. Find her, explain that—explain what? Dick says his name again. Maybe he is following him, or maybe he is walking away. _ Doesn’t matter. _

Jason catches her at the crosswalk. “Isabel,” he says again, grabbing the sleeve of her coat before she can cross with her friends. She halts, and he does too, his head as blank as her face. 

“What?” she asks innocently. “What do you want?”

It’s clear that she wants him to say it. He presses his mouth shut, fighting to find something else to say. Some other reason. An excuse?

Isabel’s lips twitch into a smile. “I’m happy for you, Jason. That’s all.”

“You told Grant,” he forces out. _ Fuck. _

“What?” She raises an eyebrow. “Jason, no I didn’t.” 

Her friends look at the two of them, titter, and walk across the street. Isabel gives them a look: _ I’ll catch up with you later. _

“You told Grant,” Jason says again. His face burns, cheeks so hot they could melt iron. “You said you wouldn’t tell anyone, and then he said you told him. It was in front of everybody.”

Isabel pauses, chewing her lower lip. “Didn’t he know?” she asks. “He said you were hanging out with those two _ you know _ and also…” her eyes trail back toward the restaurant. Dick is standing at the corner, too far away to hear them but close enough to understand. “I swear, I wouldn’t have said anything if I thought he didn’t know.” 

Jason’s fists tremble at his sides. _ Fuck you, _ he thinks. _ Fuck you. Fuck Grant. Fuck me. _“You shouldn’t have said anything.”

“But he’s your best friend, Jase,” she says. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell your best friend that you’re gay.”

“I’m _ not.” _

Isabel stifles a laugh then pretends she didn’t. Letting her face fall back into something kind, she says, “Jase, it’s the twenty-first century. It’s alright to be gay. I support you.”

“I’m _ not gay!” _ he says again, so forcefully that he knows Dick must have heard him. _ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! _

“So you’re saying I didn’t just see what I saw? What you and him were doing?”

“God damn it,” he hisses, running his hands down his face. It doesn’t matter that his nose is sore from Tommy’s fist. He wants to dig his nails into his cheeks, rake them over the skin until he’s bloody again. “That’s not—fuck!”

“Honestly, it’s okay, Jason. No one cares, anyway.” 

It’s not just his face burning anymore. His whole body is on fire. His thoughts are moving so quickly he can hardly catch them. Any second now, he is going to explode. 

_ Isabel broke up with me. Isabel told me I was gay. I met Dick because I thought I might be gay. I went to the party with Grant because I wanted to prove I wasn’t gay. She said she wouldn’t tell. She told Grant. She thought he knew. Is it okay? It’s Isabel’s fault. It’s my fault. _

Jason stares at the sidewalk, wrapping his arms so tightly across his chest that his ribcage whines in protest. He looks back toward the restaurant and squeezes even harder. 

Dick is gone. 

“You don’t understand,” he mutters, ignoring the growing sickness in his stomach. “It doesn’t matter what you saw. I like girls. I’ve always liked girls. I’m not _ gay. _” 

Isabel quiets. “So you’re saying you’re bisexual?”

He continues to stare at the ground, wishing it would open up and swallow him whole. _ Are you? _ asks the voice in his head. _ Are you? _

Placing her hand on his arm, Isabel asks, “Is it easier for you to think that?” 

“What?”

“It’s okay to be gay, Jason. You don’t need to call yourself bisexual if it’s not true.” 

_ If it’s not true. _ A sharp breath leaves him as something snaps. “Excuse me?” he demands, pushing her hand away. “What the _ fuck, _ Isabel? How the _ fuck _would you know?”

“Are we really doing this again?” She laughs like she hates that she’s laughing. “Jason, you don’t—”

“You don’t know anything.” 

“But I do,” Isabel says. “Jase, I dated you. For months. Believe me, I’d know if you were attracted to girls.” 

“You don’t know anything,” Jason says again. 

“It’s obvious.”

“I’ve been attracted to girls since middle school. Lucy Liu was my first crush. Then Rosario Dawson. Anne Hathaway. Do you want me to keep going?”

Isabel rolls her eyes. “Finding girls pretty isn’t the same as being _ attracted _to them.” She presses her tongue against her teeth, clearly a second away from insulting him. But nothing else comes. “I just want you to be honest with me, Jase. With yourself.” 

“I _ am _being honest!” he cries, kicking the ground with such force that he can feel the asphalt grind away the sole of his shoe. Down the street, someone looks at him. Stares. Huffing, he flips them off. “I’m not bullshitting you.”

“Look me in the eyes and say, ‘I’m bisexual,’” Isabel tells him. “Go on. Do it.”

Jason chews on the inside of his lip. _ Are you? Are you? _ “Why?”

Isabel lets out a frustrated groan. “Because you can’t just ‘not’ be something!” she says. “You’re ‘not gay.’ And you’re sure as hell not straight, seeing as you were just fucking making out with some guy in a parking lot. I mean, come on!” 

“I don’t—”

“Fuck! You can’t even fucking do it!” She throws her hands up in exasperation. “Jesus Christ, Jason. You’ll never be happy if you keep pretending to be something you’re not.”

“Stop,” he says.

“I just want to see you happy. It’s sad, watching you mope around school all the time.”

_ “Stop.” _

“I mean, I thought that showing you the truth would do some good, but I guess not. Because even when you’re making out with a guy you’re claiming you’re not gay.”

“I said, _ stop!” _ Jason hisses, using all his strength to root himself in place. The last rational part of his head says, _ Don’t hit her. Don’t hit her. You’ll never come back if you hit her. _ “You have _ no fucking idea _ what you’re talking about. This is my shitty fucking life, got it? So shut the _ fuck up!” _

Isabel blinks. She looks at his hands, as if she knows what’s running through his head. Maybe she wants him to hit her. That’s how it works, isn’t it? The one who loses control first is the one who loses everything. 

At last she asks, “What the fuck is _ wrong _with you?”

His thoughts reply first: _ I think I’m asexual. _

It’s strange, how quickly the fire leaves him. His fists unclench. His jaw loosens. _ I think I’m asexual. _Now he is completely empty, staring out into the Gotham streets and wishing for an accident. A runaway car. A piece of rebar, flying from the back of a truck. A tsunami that sweeps through and carries him into the depths of the harbor. 

“I don’t know,” he replies quietly. “Maybe everything.”

“Well,” Isabel huffs, “like I said, it’s not my job to fix it.”

“You’re sure acting like it is.”

“Being nice is not the same thing.”

“You’ve got a messed up definition of ‘nice.’”

“Whatever.” Isabel spins on her heels and starts to cross the street. Over her shoulder she calls, “Nothing I am is as messed up as you.”

And Jason, standing alone, wonders if he agrees with her. After all, he’s the one that can’t articulate what his thoughts are. What he is. He’s the one that chased after Isabel and made it worse. He’s the one that left Dick—

His eyes widen. _ Shit. _

This time, the hostess recognizes him when he walks into the burger bar. “Oh,” she says. “Hey. You’re all fixed up.” 

“Dick’s still here?” Jason asks quickly.

“I, uh…” She peers over her shoulder. “Behind the bar.” 

Jason doesn’t say anything else. In half a second he is sliding onto a barstool. “Dick,” he says. “Dick I’m—”

“One sec,” Dick replies. He doesn’t look up from the glass in his hands, staring into the ice as he fills it with some caramel-colored soda. 

Jason chews on his lip and waits. _ Please don’t be hurt, _ he thinks. _ Please. _

Dick fills the glass, then moves to another. Then a third, this time with what looks to be Sprite. “Be right back,” he mutters, and carries the drinks off to a table. His face changes as he approaches, lighting up with kindness and enthusiasm. Even though Jason cannot hear him, he can tell what he is saying. _ Two diet Cokes, one Sprite. You guys ready to order, or do you need another minute? Sounds good. I’ll be back soon! _

By the time Dick comes back to him, the energy seems to have faded. It’s not gone, but it’s fallen to a level with which Jason is not familiar. He wonders if he is going to throw up. 

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing Jason says. The only thing he can say. “That was...that was my ex.”

_ Oh you’ve done it now, Todd! You always know _ exactly _ what to say. _

“Yep,” Dick replies. “I figured.” 

“How much did you hear?”

“Oh, not much. Just you calling for her, then something about a guy named Grant.” He pauses to tuck the drink tray in his armpit. “I’m guessing this wasn’t a fun conversation.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason says again. 

“I get it. Really.” 

His fingers find a nearby napkin and begin to tear at the corner. “It’s okay if you’re angry at me,” he says. “I get it. I’m an asshole.”

The ghost of a smile tugs at Dick’s lips. “You’re not an asshole, Jay. But...” He shifts uncomfortably, playing with the hem of his apron as he stares at the floor.

Jason tears the napkin into confetti. _ This is it, _ he thinks. _ This is the part where he says he doesn’t want me anymore. _

“...Can we talk about it?” Dick finishes. “Later, obviously. I’ve gotta work.” 

Relief loosens Jason’s shoulders. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll be—I’ll be here.” 

“My shift ends in three hours.”

“I’ll find something to do.”

“Okay,” Dick says. He steps forward, puts one hand on Jason’s. His skin is searing. “Don’t think too much about it. That’s the worst thing you can do, believe me.” 

As he walks away, Jason wonders what he meant by that. 

***

He walks four blocks to the nearest bookstore and sits in the back, holding a book open on his lap while he stares at his phone screen. Part of him is waiting for Isabel to text, and another part hates himself for waiting. Why would she? As far as she knows, he’s a violent gay asshole who will never be happy because he’s too stubborn to admit the truth. And she’s right, mostly. 

Jason Peter Todd: violent asshole who will never be happy because he’s too stubborn to admit the truth.

_ I wish I weren’t the way I am, _he thinks. He’s wished a lot of things in his life—I wish my mom didn’t do drugs, I wish my dad wasn’t in prison, I wish Tommy would fuck off forever, I wish we had money, I wish I were drunk right now—but he struggles to think of something more all-encompassing. 

“I’m asexual,” he whispers to the book. Except he hates the way that word feels in his mouth, hates the sound of it bouncing off the pages and back into his ears. Nothing is wrong and yet everything is _ wrong _ . It doesn’t stick. It’s not _ him. _

Jason tries again. “I’m bisexual,” he says, and the effect is the same. Tears push against the underside of his eyes; he blinks them away. 

Back when he met Dick, and Roy, and Steph, they told him what they were like they had known their whole lives. Like it came naturally to them. Like they were proud of it. 

He of all people knows life isn’t fair. Hell, that was one of the first lessons his dad ever taught him. Nothing is ever fair, and the people that expect it to be will always be disappointed. But still. Why do some people get to be out and proud, and other people get to be _ him? _

Forcing his eyes downward, Jason stares at the book in his hands. _ Read, _he thinks, and he tries.

_ When dawn touched Paul's window sill with yellow light, he sensed it through closed eyelids— _

Is Isabel going to tell anyone? She said she wouldn’t. She said she wouldn’t have told Grant, if she thought he didn’t know. She said she feels sorry for him. 

_ When dawn touched Paul's window sill with yellow light, he sensed it through closed eyelids— _

Jason squeezes the book until he can no longer feel his fingertips. The edges of the cover bite into the soft part of his palms. Isabel’s friends might tell people. Maybe Isabel will tell them that he almost hit her, and they’ll do it out of spite. _ Jason Todd’s gay and in denial, but don’t worry about that because he’s a major fucking asshole. _

_ When dawn touched Paul's window sill with yellow light, he sensed it through closed eyelids— _

And what if Dick doesn’t want someone who’s stuck in the closet? Jason wouldn’t blame him, if he didn’t. Maybe it would be easier that way, if they stopped seeing each other and went on with their lives. Dick could find someone he actually deserves, and Jason could finish school and wait for Tommy to kill him. 

_ When dawn touched Paul's window sill with yellow light, he sensed it through closed eyelids— _

Curling his knees into his chest, Jason tries to move past the line—_ closed eyelids, opened them, hearing then the renewed bustle and hurry in the castle _—but there’s no joy in it. They’re just words. He can’t picture the scene in his brain as he normally does, can’t get lost in lives that aren’t his. When he finally turns the page, he realizes that he has read nothing at all. 

_ Maybe I deserve this, _he thinks. After all, he’s Jason Peter Todd: stubborn, violent asshole. He let Grant make fun of Harper and Kyle. He gets drunk on school nights. He lets Tommy take advantage of his mom. He couldn’t even thank Dick for saving his life. And after he kissed Dick, he pretended it didn’t happen. He wanted to hit Isabel. 

If Dick ends things, will Jason want to hit him too?

Groaning, he sets aside the book and picks up another. His phone says that there are still two hours before Dick finishes his shift. 

Fuck. 

In the end he moves to a nearby cafe and leeches their WiFi while he plays mindless games. The last one is the game of Life. He becomes an accountant. When he lands on the “Get Married” tile, the game puts a little pink figure next to his blue one. He closes the game and spends the next fifteen minutes staring at the cars passing down the street. 

Yeah, he deserves this. 

The walk back to the restaurant takes nearly twenty minutes. For half of it he kicks a rock down the sidewalk. And after it bounced into the gutter, he figures he should get used to things leaving him. 

No one is at Dick’s car, so Jason stands by the door, staring at his bloodied shirt in the backseat. His nose tingles at the sight. Another thing to get used to, he supposes. 

“Hey.”

Jason didn’t hear Dick approach. “Hey.”

A paper container is thrust into his hands. “I got you this,” Dick says. 

Whatever it is, it smells good. Really good. Jason realizes from the ache in his stomach, his throat, that he hasn’t eaten anything since the morning. Is this a parting gift?

“Thanks,” he says, when he remembers not to be an asshole. Hesitantly, he asks, “What’s this for?”

Dick shrugs, holding up a container of his own “We get one free meal per shift, and I cashed in on a couple. Is that alright?” 

The container is warm in his hands. He runs a hand over it, feels the bumps of the paper beneath his palms. “You said you wanted to talk.”

“Yeah.”

Silence. 

“Do you still want to talk?” Jason asked flatly. It wasn’t really a question, more of a _ get this over with _kind of plea. 

Dick shrugged. “Can we sit? I don’t want to stand and eat. That’s how I end up with sauce down my front.” 

_ Fuck. _His mouth goes dry. Sitting is the last thing he wants to do, but he nods anyway. 

“I’m not trying to be cryptic or anything,” Dick says quickly. “Honestly, I just like this shirt.” 

“It’s a nice shirt.”

“Here.” Dick unlocks his car and slides into the back seat, beckoning for Jason to join him. 

He does. The smell of the food is starting to make him sick. He doubts he could eat even if he wanted to. 

They sit in the back, doors open. It’s only a little after five, but Gotham is already starting to feel the cool rush of evening wind. The sun has started to dip behind the skyline. 

Jason watches Dick toss a fry into his mouth, ignoring the churning in his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

“You don’t need to keep apologizing.”

He stares at the lines in his hands. _ Just get it over with. _“If you want to stop this, I’d understand.”

“Stop what?”

Jason motions to the two of them.

Dick pauses, jaw and brow tense in confusion. At last he asks, “Do you think I’m mad at you?”

“Why wouldn’t you be? I left you to get in an argument with my ex.”

A moment. Dick sighs. “I remember what it was like, coming out,” he says. “Did you know a tabloid ran some stupid story about it? Still remember the headline: _ Wayne Gay Scandal. _I mean, come on.”

Jason blinks. “I’m...I’m sorry,” he replies, his head straining to process everything he had just heard. 

“It sucks, hearing people say things about you.” 

“Uh huh.”

Dick smiles sadly, dragging a fry over the bottom of the container. He doesn’t look at Jason. “If you’re not ready to be out that’s okay.”

Jason braces himself for the second half of that statement. 

“...But I want to know that you will be. Someday.”

The unsaid hangs heavy in the air. Jason doesn’t know if he should be relieved that Dick still likes him, still wants him, or if he should be afraid of what being out means for him. 

Beside him, his bloodied shirt makes his spine itch.

Slowly, he nods. “I like you,” he says, and for once he believes the words coming out of his mouth. Even if they sound fucking stupid. 

“That’s good,” Dick says. “And here I was thinking you hated me.”

“Ha ha.”

Suddenly Dick’s face falls. “Does anyone know?” he asks. “Not that they have to. I’m just curious.” 

“Isabel,” Jason says. His fingers curl around the edge of the seat. “I mean, she thinks I’m gay. She told my friend—sort of friend—that I was.”

“Grant, I’m assuming.”

“Yeah. He’s an asshole.”

_ “She _sounds like an asshole.”

“A little, yeah.” Jason looks at his shirt again. “Harper and Kyle also know, and maybe Cullen Row. I don’t know how much he listens to us.” 

Dick smiles. “Those guys are nice.”

“They’re fucking weird,” Jason says. “But yeah.”

“Can I tell Tim and Dami?”

“That I’m gay?” 

“No, just that I’m seeing you.” Dick pauses. “Unless you want me to tell them that you’re gay?”

Something in Jason drops. “I’m not.”

“Figured. Heard you shout something like that at your ex.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” 

Jason stares at the container of food. He thinks about how it felt to wake up after kissing Dick for the first time, to settle on nothing but _ I like Richard Grayson. _“Yeah, you can tell them. And your friends too, if you want.” 

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” 

“Cool,” Dick says. 

“What are you doing tonight?” Jason asks quickly, just to change the subject. 

“Tim’s got a school thing that we’re going to. They’re putting on a production of _ Anything Goes. _He’s doing the lights.” 

“That’s fun.” 

“Yeah.” Dick pokes at his burger, then decides not to pick it up, as if him eating could offend Jason. “Do you have any plans with your family?” 

_ What family? _“No. My mom is...she likes to go to bed early.”

“What does she do?”

Jason stares out the open door, watching cars push down the street. “She was a waitress for a little bit.” Then, before Dick could have a chance to process it, he adds, “What does your dad do?” 

“I…um…” 

“It’s a joke.” 

“Oh.”

“I was joking.”

Dick nods. “It’s cool that you have your mom, though,” he says. “And that you take care of her and all that.” 

“She’s my mom.”

“Huh.” He looks over at Jason, sees the closed container. “Do you not like burgers? I’m sorry, I should have asked.”

“I don’t think I can eat right now,” Jason replies. 

“What’s on your mind?”

Ha! What _ isn’t _on his mind?

“Nothing,” Jason says, looking once again at his shirt. It was a lot of blood. The collar looks like it’s been dyed. All that, just for standing up to Tommy. “I’m just not that hungry.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.” 

“Alright,” Dick says, but it sounds like he doesn’t believe him. 

That’s fair. Jason wouldn’t believe him either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	19. Senior Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was peer pressured into including "heavy petting" but I have no spine, so have some "medium petting" instead. 
> 
> In other news, my email signature just got a hell of a lot fancier. You may now address me as Morimaitar, MFA. 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** References to underage drinking, abuse, and encounters with dubious consent.

The Thursday of his last soccer game, Jason stands in front of the bathroom mirror and practices being  _ out.  _

“I’m bisexual,” he tells his reflection, and when his reflection grimaces he tries again. “I’m dating Dick Grayson. I mean, I’m seeing Dick Grayson. In a dating kind of way. And he’s a boy, so…” 

It’s not as hard as he thought it would be. But then again, he’s alone in his apartment—even his mom is out doing something with some people she claims are her friends—and the mirror can’t judge him. The mirror can’t hurt him. 

Sighing, Jason splashes water over his face to cool his burning cheeks. For a moment he rests his weight against the edges of the sink, digging his feet into the floor as he stares down the drain. Water drips into his eyes, off the tip of his nose. One mississippi. Two mississippi. 

“I’m seeing Dick Grayson,” Jason tells the drain. 

The drain swallows his words.

He dries his face on the sleeve of his overshirt, grabs his backpack, and heads off to the parking lot, where Harper is waiting with Cullen to drive him to school. 

“You look like shit,” she says. 

“I know.”

“How’s your nose?”

Jason scrunches his nose like a rabbit to show her that he’s fine. The muscles of his face ache only slightly. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend that he strained something smiling for the camera. Tommy who? No one he knows would ever hit him in the face. 

“That’s good,” Harper replies, and jumps in the car. Jason follows close behind. 

“You’re playing today?” he asks, noting the soccer bag next to him in the back seat. 

“Yup.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Jason shrugs.

“Anyone special coming to see you play?” she asks. It’s obvious from her tone of voice who she’s really talking about. 

Squirming, he says, “Not that I know of.”

“Too bad.”

“Not really.”

“I feel like you guys are keeping something from me,” Cullen says. 

Harper reaches toward the passenger seat to place a finger against her brother’s lips. “Shhh,” she coos. “Babies are too young to ask questions.”

Cullen pushes her arm away, scowling. “I’m not a baby.”

“Yes you are. A  _ baby.”  _

Jason watches silently from the back seat, feeling more than a headrest between them. His mom used to talk like that with him, or he thinks she did, but he can hardly remember it. A warm face, fewer wrinkles, no bags beneath her eyes. She loved him. Loves him. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if her love came with conditions. 

The ride goes by quickly, and school is no more than a blur. Questions, answers, homework. A pop quiz he probably got a B on. Not bad, but he should probably maintain an A average if he doesn’t want the College of New Jersey to revoke its acceptance letter. And maybe Gotham University too, if they did accept him. But by this point, he figures they hadn’t. 

(Don’t think about that. Focus. Focus.)

When the soccer team is getting ready in the locker room, Jason stands to a side, staring at the dirtied tile floor as he slips on his uniform. 

_ I’m seeing Dick Grayson,  _ he thinks at the tiles. 

_ I really like Dick Grayson,  _ he thinks at his cleats. 

_ This is me coming out,  _ he thinks at his water bottle.

But it’s not, isn’t it? It’s just like Isabel said. He can’t just  _ not  _ be something. He can’t be  _ out  _ as  _ nothing.  _

Fuck. 

“Jason?”

He turns around only to come face-to-face with Grant. Jason huffs and grabs his bag, throwing it over his shoulder as he pushes past him. A hand grabs his forearm, yanks him back.

“What do you want?” Jason growls, yanking his arm away from Grant’s hand.  _ Fuck you,  _ he thinks.  _ This is your fault too.  _

“I wanted to—” Grant stops abruptly, rubbing the back of his neck. He looks like he wants to throttle someone, or maybe like he’s going to throw up. “You know my brother Joey?”

“What kind of shit question is that?” Jason asks. Even if he hadn’t seen Joey sitting at the freshman tables all year, he’d been to Grant’s house. He used to be Grant’s  _ friend.  _

Grant’s brow furrows. “Look,” he says. “He, um, he came out on Saturday. As  _ bi-sexual  _ or whatever.”

It’s as if someone punched Jason in the gut. “Good for him,” he snaps. 

“And anyway, I just wanted to—I wanted to apologize. Really apologize. What I did—what I said—it was a real dick move.”

“You think?” Jason laughs. His stomach begins to ache. “Fuck, man. You’re a fucking asshole.” 

“I know.”

“Do you know who you’re like? You’re like those jerkwads that respect women after they have daughters.” 

“Yeah,” Grant mumbles. “You don’t need to rub it in.”

“Fuck you.”

Grant runs a hand through his short brown hair, pushing against his scalp until his knuckles are white. “Jesus. I’m being sincere.”

Jason scoffs. 

“I just…” He adjusts the straps of his soccer bags, digging the toe of his cleat into the tile. “I was mad you didn’t tell me, and I took it out on you. And then Joey…and it just sucked, hearing it from Isabel.”

“Well fuck Isabel too. She’s wrong.”

Grant blinks. “What?”

“I’m not gay,” Jason says, and it feels like it’s all he’s been saying. A broken record.  _ I’m not gay. Not gay. Not gay. Not gay, gay, gay.  _

“Oh.”

_ Are you gonna tell him?  _ the floor asks.  _ Are you gonna do it?  _

“They’re starting the warm-up,” Jason mumbles, pushing past Grant without looking him in the eyes. 

_ Coward,  _ says the locker room. 

No one is there to watch him play this time—at least, no one he really knows. The stands are unusually crowded because of Senior Night, and someone made large posters with all the seniors’ names in bright bubble letters. Jason has no idea who is holding his, or any of them, really. It’s probably just some idea the Spirit Squad came up with to make them feel more important. In reality, it’s just embarrassing.

As he takes his place on the field, Jason finds himself wishing he was back in bed, watching some Netflix show he doesn’t care about while drinking something that tastes like shit. 

_ I went on a date with Dick Grayson,  _ he tells the grass. 

When a stark wind blows through the field, the grass bows in the direction of the crowd. Jason can almost hear it saying,  _ don’t tell me, dumbass. Tell them.  _

A cramp settles in the left side of his abdomen. It doesn’t disappear until the ref blows the final whistle. Jason bends over and gasps for breath, hands on his knees, hair dripping with sweat and strings of dried grass. His teammates are whooping in victory; the crowd is cheering. 

If this were a movie, Dick Grayson would be running down the stands and into Jason’s arms. Jason would pick him up, spin him around, and kiss him in the middle of the field, having suddenly found the confidence to be himself. The crowd would cheer louder. His mom—because of course she came to the game—would cry and promise to get better. Flash forward six months, and Jason is happy in college with Dick as his boyfriend, his mom is sober for the first time in twelve years, Tommy is in prison, and they’re all smiling over bowls of salad or some shit. Happily ever after. Cue the credits. 

But it’s not a movie. Dick isn’t here. His mom is  _ definitely _ not here. Jason is staring at the weeds beneath his cleats, too exhausted to think.

The teams shake hands. Someone calls for the seniors to step forward and  _ blah blah blah,  _ gives them coffee mugs that say SEN16R NIGHT and Starbucks gift cards. Jason eyes the crowd, sees that the poster with his name was written in red. #2 JASON TODD. There’s something bitterly funny about that, like he’s a second-rate Jason. 

Which, to be fair, isn’t far off. 

From the corner of his eye he sees Grant talking with Rose by the stands, his arm wrapped around some girl Jason vaguely recognizes from one of his previous Spanish classes. Joey is with them. For a moment Jason does nothing but stare, and then Grant looks over and waves apologetically, and Jason walks off the field without another word. 

He’s sitting down at the bus stop when someone sits next to him. 

“Slipped out of there pretty quick, kid,” the person says, and it takes Jason a second to realize that it’s Lucas. 

He swears before he remembers to be nice. “You, um, you came to my game?”

Lucas shrugs. “I had to see it once. You did good out there.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course, I prefer rugby. Or hockey. Anything with a little more violence, you know? The bloodier, the better.” 

“Too bad you didn’t live in ancient Rome,” Jason says.

Lucas lets out a low whistle. “Tell me about it,” Lucas replies. “Gays and gladiators. The Romans really knew how to live, you feel me?”

Jason quiets, staring at the straps of his backpack. He thinks about Dick, about needing to be out someday if they’re ever gonna make it. Which, of course they won’t, not in the long run. But the longer he can hold onto Dick, the longer his life isn’t absolute shit. 

“You alright there?” Lucas asks. 

He clears his throat, nods. “Yeah. I mean, yeah. Just thinking.”

“Huh. You waiting for your mom?” Lucas cranes his neck toward the people filtering from the stadium, as if he knew what Catherine looked like and could pick her out of a crowd. Maybe he thinks she and Jason are similar in some way, in appearance or attitude.

Jason swallows the lump in his throat. “She...couldn’t make it.”

“Oh. That sucks. Want a ride home?”

“What?” 

Lucas raises an eyebrow. “You heard me. It’s cool if you don’t. I get it— _ don’t accept rides from a strange adults, especially the guy who was just talking about blood.” _

Jason laughs despite himself. “Yeah. That’d be—that would be great. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Lucas replies.

And then they’re walking toward his car, and Jason his hugging his backpack against his chest, already regretting everything because he smells like dirt and sweat and Lucas is gonna see his shitty neighborhood, and so help him if Tommy is there—

“So,” Lucas says, starting the engine, “still no car?”

Jason shakes his head.  _ Can’t find out about my home life. Can’t find out about my home— _

“Damn, kid. Are you saving up for college or something? I know you’ve worked enough hours for that.”

“I, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck, staring out the windshield. Yellow light. Red light. “I’m helping my mom out a little bit.”

“Oh?” Lucas’ eyebrow twitches toward his hairline. “That’s nice of you.”

Jason shrugs.

“But don’t forget to do stuff for  _ you,  _ you know?” Green light. The car pulls forward, makes a left onto a busy avenue. “Both Andrew and I…well, it felt like we were always doing things for other people. Took us a while to figure out who we were and what we wanted.” 

“Did you know you were gay?” Jason asks, and as soon as the words leave his mouth he wishes desperately he could take them back. His face burns.  _ Did you know you were gay?  _ Oh my god. He’s such an  _ asshole.  _

But Lucas only laughs. “Ha! Yeah I did,” he says. “Sometimes I feel it was the only thing I knew.” 

“Oh.”

Lucas pauses, as if he sensed something deeper in between them. “It’s not like that for everyone,” he adds.

“I know.” Jason licks his lips. Beneath the passenger window, an empty paper cup rolls along the gutter. “I, uh, had a good time with Dick Grayson, the other night.”

“So I don’t need to beat him up?”

“No.”

Lucas smirks. “Figures. His dad’s a rich bastard, but he’s a good guy. I’d be shocked if his kids weren’t the same.”

“Yep,” Jason says.

“Does he make you happy?” Lucas asks, and the question is so sudden that Jason feels his breath catch in his throat. 

“Um.” He scratches his forearm, digging his nails into the soft flesh in the crook of his elbow. Scratching, scratching. A couple are jogging down the street. “Yeah. He does.”

Nodding, Lucas looks over his shoulder, then merges into the right lane. “Then that’s all you need to know,” he says. “You live on Briggs, right?”

Jason blinks, still turning the words over in his head. “Yeah.”

“Where is that?”

“Not the next right, but the one after.” 

“Right,” Lucas replies, and Jason can’t tell if that’s supposed to be a joke or not. Eventually, he settles on  _ maybe a joke,  _ and frowns into the darkness beneath the glove compartment. 

He thinks about kissing Dick. And not just that—sitting next to him, talking with him, feeling his smile reach into the deepest part of his chest.  _ Dick makes me happy,  _ he thinks. A kind of happy he hasn’t felt before and might not ever feel again. 

“Which one?” Lucas asks. 

Jason’s eyes flicker back toward the street. “The large gray building,” he says. “Left side.”

Lucas nods, then pulls into the parking lot in front of the apartment building. If he thinks it's a piece of shit building, he doesn’t let his thoughts show on his face. “Alright,” he says, shifting the car into park. “Go on and get out.”

Tommy’s car is nowhere in the lot, at least as far as Jason can tell. Good. Jason can only imagine the shit that would go down if Tommy saw him with Lucas. He’d be lucky to get through it with less than a broken bone. And then if Lucas found out… 

Grabbing his bag, he swings it over his shoulder. “Thanks Lucas,” he says, pushing open the door. “I owe you one.”

“Psshh. Shut up.”

Jason smiles and lets the door fall shut.  _ Don’t follow me,  _ he begs.  _ Please don’t follow me.  _ And he doesn’t hear footsteps, which is good. But then, when he is halfway to the door,he hears Lucas calling behind him. 

“Hey Jason.” His head is sticking out of the driver’s window, split by that intimidating grin of his.

“What?”

“You’re not half-bad.”

Jason tries to smile, but can only manage half of one. Giving one last wave, he turns, walks inside, and tries to find something else that makes him happy. 

Books. Netflix. Unfrozen dinner. His mom comes out of her room and asks him why he’s wearing his soccer uniform; he tells her about the game and tries to have a conversation. Key word:  _ tries.  _ She gets up, pours herself a drink. Jason is alone on the sofa again. His apartment smells like cigarettes and take-out containers. 

“Did you eat?” his mom calls from the kitchen. 

He nods even though he knows she isn’t looking. On the coffee table in front of him is the leftover plastic from the microwaved spaghetti. She saw it. He  _ knows  _ she saw it, because he was still eating when she sat next to him. 

_ Happy,  _ he reminds himself, and presses  _ play  _ on his shitty laptop. Best to find something sooner rather than later, just  _ one thing  _ he can hold onto after Dick is gone and he really has nothing left. Except the show is stupid, and he still smells like mud and grass, and he has half a mind to ask his mom to get him a moscow mule or vodka tonic, except he also knows he shouldn’t, except he also wants one. 

Fuck.

His mom’s bedroom door slams shut. With a sigh, Jason pauses the show, cleans up after himself, and gets ready for bed. Might as well catch up on sleep. It’s not like he has anything better to do, anyway.

He’s halfway changed into his sleep clothes when he gets a text from Dick. His stomach leaps into his throat. 

_ Did u win?? I’m really sorry I couldn’t make it tonight :( _

_ Yeah. And it’s nbd. Not a very exciting game.  _

_ It’s always exciting if you’re there.  _

Something twists inside him.  _ Thanks,  _ he writes, and as soon as he hits “send” he regrets it. When did his brain shut off? He didn’t even drink. Maybe it’s just something about texting Dick that turns him inside-out and scrambles him into a million pieces.

Lucas’ words echo in his head.  _ Does he make you happy?  _

God damn it. And here he is, being a jackass again. 

Sighing, he writes:  _ Do you want to hang out again tomorrow? _

A short pause, then Jason remembers that he’s supposed to be in the process of coming out, whatever that means for him. 

_ I mean,  _ he writes,  _ go out. With me. Somewhere. _

_ Uh, YES. _

_ I want to make up for Sunday.  _

_ Sunday wasn’t your fault.  _

Jason chews his lip. Of course it’s his fault. It was a coincidence that he made worse. But this is when he’s supposed to be  _ happy.  _ He’s not supposed to be bringing that up. Sitting down on his bed, he runs his thumbs over the screen, thinking  _ happy happy happy,  _ until he figures out what he wants to say. 

_ How about I make you forget Sunday?  _

His eyes widen when he rereads the words that fell from his fingers. Wait. Did he write that? Fuck.  _ Fuck!  _

There is a long pause. Jason can feel his heartbeat throbbing in his gut, his throat, his tongue. His chest rises and falls rapidly—his bare chest,  _ fuck,  _ he’s not even wearing a shirt—and he wants to take it back, he  _ aches  _ to take it back, and yet a small part of him wonders if this is the only way to keep Dick for as long as possible. And an even smaller part still, only a fraction of his being, wonders where it could go. 

Three gray dots. Fuck those three gray dots. 

_ What do you want to do?  _ Dick asks. 

Well,  _ that _ didn’t help at all. Jason eyes the open door to his room, thinking about all the times he did online shit with Isabel, how stupid he felt when she sent him a picture of her breasts or told him what she wanted to do with his body.  _ Okay,  _ he always thought.  _ And?  _ And nothing. He’d try to mirror whatever she did, a picture for a picture, or just told her how hot she made him feel, and then he’d roll over and go to bed. Sometimes he’d touch himself and try to visualize her words, but he always gave up and got off to nothing. 

Fuck. Why is he even thinking about this shit? Dick isn’t Isabel. He  _ can’t  _ be. 

_ I don’t know,  _ Jason replies.  _ Let’s just meet and see what happens.  _

When his phone vibrates, he doesn’t check it. Instead he throws on a tee shirt, closes the door to his room, turns off the light, and falls into bed. 

Bad. This is bad. Every time Jason closes his eyes, he sees Dick’s face, the swell of Dick’s chest, the ridge of muscle along Dick’s forearms.  _ How about I make you forget Sunday?  _ All he meant was for them to be happy together, to make good memories before it ends. But what if Dick thought he meant something else? What if, ten miles from here, he’s half-naked in the dark, imagining Jason, one hand pressed over his mouth while the other pushes down the waistband of his sweats, and he’s groaning into his sweaty palm, and he  _ wants? _

Jason curls into himself, squeezing his thighs together as he shoves a pillow over his head. But the darkness only makes things worse. After he can’t stand it anymore he rolls over and stares up at the ceiling, counting cracks and pretending the clench in his lower abdomen isn’t a twisted form of  _ want.  _

It’s not want in the “I need to have sex with you” kind of way—or maybe it is, who even knows anymore—but a deeper, implacable want, a form of nostalgia for something that hasn’t happened yet. A want to be understood? To be seen? To have some shared intimacy? 

_ Fuck,  _ he thinks.  _ Why does it have to be so fucking difficult?  _

And it only gets worse, because of course it does. 

On Friday afternoon, Jason waits on a bench outside the city park and looks for a familiar face among the ones that pass down the streets. The ache in his stomach returns, and all of a sudden he’s back in a dark room, this time with Dick, and their bodies are intertwined tree roots, and their mouths are open against each other’s necks—

“Hey handsome,” Dick says, and Jason’s bones turn to jelly. “Glad to see there’s no blood this time.”

_ Kiss him,  _ say his instincts, but he’s just conscious enough to hold back. They’re still at the edge of the park. Anyone could be watching. The last thing he wants is another Isabel. 

_ How about I make you forget Sunday? _

“You’re too much,” Jason says, his eyes falling down Dick’s torso. God. He’s just wearing a tee shirt, but the muscles of his chest and shoulders push against the fabric, and it takes all of his energy to tear his eyes away.

“Maybe,” Dick replies. He sits down and slips his hand into Jason’s, squeezing gently. “I wish I could have seen you last night.”

Jason glances down at their intertwined hands. “It’s no big deal.”

“It was your last soccer game.”

“My mom didn’t even go.”

“Oh.” Dick squeezes his hand again. “Why not?”

He chews the inside of his cheek. “She, uh…”  _ She what? Make it good, dumbass. _ “She had other plans.”

They are silent for a moment. Jason listens to the sounds of the street: the conversations, the cars, the gentle hum of neon signs and draining pipes. When those grow old he focuses on the heat of Dick’s palms, the callouses beneath his fingers. 

Then Dick stands, pulling Jason with him. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“‘Kay,” Jason mutters, strangely grateful to be disappearing into the shadows of the tree-lined path. 

Dick’s eyes find the sunlight filtering through the leaves. “I’m glad you wanted to go out. It’s a nice day.”

“Yep.”

“Tim and I used to go on hikes on days like this. Before he grew up and got busy.”

“Cute,” Jason says. They approach a couple pushing a stroller—a lump forms in his throat—and he almost tugs his hand away from Dick’s, but at the last moment he remembers he’s supposed to be in the process of being out, and doesn’t let go. The woman looks at them, at their hands, and smiles. 

Jason releases the breath caught in his chest. Dick didn’t seem to notice at all. 

“Did you ever want siblings?” he asks. 

Jason squeezes his hand a little harder. “Not really.”

“You liked being an only child?” 

“I just figured my parents couldn’t afford another one like me.” 

The path comes to a fork. They take the left. “Oh?” asks Dick. “I didn’t picture you as an expensive kid.”

“Well. Expensive baby.”  _ Why am I talking about this?  _

“Wait.” Dick’s eyes sparkle as he looks up at Jason’s face. “Don’t tell me you were a preemie.  _ You?”  _

“No. I was… My mom forgot to stop taking meds when she was pregnant, so, yep.” He laughs because he doesn’t know what else to do. “Shit happens.”

Dick says nothing.

“Where are we going, anyway?” Jason asks, eager to fill the silence. 

Clearing his throat, Dick says, “There’s a cute garden by the bridge. The stone one.”

“As cute as you?” Jason tries. God. He sounds pathetic.

“Mmm probably not.”

“Too bad.”

Dick’s hand slips away. “Jason.” 

Fuck. He’d recognize that tone anywhere. “What’s up?” Jason replies, trying to shrug it off. Nothing wrong here! They’re just two dudes with normal lives, trying to be happy together.

“Last weekend, why was your nose bleeding?”

“Thought you didn’t want to talk about Sunday,” Jason mutters, kicking a stone down the path. It flies into a bush and disappears.

“I never said that.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter what happened.” He grins, taps the tip of his nose. “See? I’m fine. It was an accident.”

“Jay.”

“Accidents happen.”

_ “Jay.”  _

“Fine,” Jason snaps. “I was joking around with my mom’s friend, and he took a swing at me. He didn’t think I was that close.”

“You looked upset,” Dick says. 

“I had just gotten hit in the face. Shit hurts.”

“You sounded like you were in a hurry.” 

Jason huffs. In front of them he thinks he sees the space Dick was talking about: trees, rose bushes, a bench or two. It would have been nice, except he had to be an idiot and bring up his mom. Make Dick start questioning things. “Look,” he says. “It’s no big deal, and we don’t need to talk about it.”

That seems to do the trick. “Okay,” Dick says quietly.

When Jason grabs Dick’s hand again, he holds it tight as he dares, trying to be nothing but happy. And it works, if only for a little while. 

“Cute, huh?” Dick says. He’s standing closer to Jason now, leaning into him without letting their bodies touch, as if there were a thin layer of cellophane between them. 

Jason licks his lips.  _ Happy.  _ “Yeah, but you were right,” he says. “It’s not as cute as you.”

“Sorry for the disappointment, then.”

“Eh. It’s a hard bar to pass.” 

Dick hums, his full lips pulling into a smile. Again Jason feels himself dissolving, feels the empty space of longing settle in his abdomen.  _ Make him forget Sunday.  _

He brings his mouth to Dick’s without another thought, letting his body bridge the gap between them. His free hand grips Dick’s forearm and rises steadily, pushing up and up until the sleeve of Dick’s shirt is slipping over his fingers. Asking for permission. 

Their hands untangle. A yes.

Jason is touching Dick’s stomach now, tracing everything he can find, pushing into him like he’s the only thing keeping them tethered to the ground. And then there’s a hand in his hair, another on his chest, his jaw, his shoulder. He is untethered.

His back hits something hard—a tree or a lamppost or who the fuck even cares—and Dick is pushing him harder, pressing until Jason is sure his hands will leave their marks on his skin. His own yearning is a whirlwind in his chest.  _ This is easy,  _ he thinks. Maybe they could be forever. Maybe he could learn to  _ want  _ Dick. 

And he’s happy, and he’s happy, and Dick is pushing his leg in between his own—

“Wait,” Jason chokes out, slipping out from Dick’s arms. Leaning against the tree--it was a tree—he gasps for breath, wondering how fast he could disappear if he were to run. His throat is tight. He sees flashes of a girl’s face above his own, tastes a sweet liquor in his mouth. And he wants to scream  _ stop  _ but he can’t do that and he can’t do that and  _ he can’t do that! _

“What’s wrong?” Dick asks. He reaches out, but then seems to think better of it. His hand falls to his side.

_ Deep breath in, deep breath out.  _ Jason puts on an apologetic, but cheerful mask. “I’ve walked in on too many people,” he says.  _ Deep breath in, deep breath out.  _ “It’s just…PDA.” 

“Fuck.” Dick rubs the back of his neck. His face is flushed, his lips plump. All Jason feels is nausea. “You’re right.”

“I usually am.” 

Dick sits down on a bench and motions for Jason to follow. He does. “You know what really sucks?”

“What?” Jason replies.

“You were just starting to get good at kissing.”

“That joke’s getting old.”

A sly grin appears on Dick’s face. “Joke? Who’s joking?”

“Ha ha.”

“Right.” Dick leans his head into Jason’s shoulder as he stares out over the pond. A moment passes. Then, he says, “I like you.”

_ Deep breath in, deep breath out.  _ “I like you too.”

“I wish we could make out.”

“Me too.”

“Rain check?”

Jason nods, adjusting so that his shoulder fits better into the curve of Dick’s neck. But it’s not good enough. It’s never good enough. And sooner or later Dick is gonna get up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincerely,  
Morimaitar, MFA


	20. One Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I relearned differential calculus for a throwaway line in this chapter. I hope you're happy. 
> 
> Anyway, I published my last chapter during the weird email thing. If you did not read Chapter 19 (it ends when Jason & Dick are in a park), then please read that first. 
> 
> Thank you to all my friends on Discord who push me into getting my ass in gear. You guys rock. 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** references to abuse, Jason's Feelings

For the next four weeks, Jason makes it work. It’s like walking a razor’s edge, one gust of wind away from falling over and bleeding out, but somehow, he keeps his balance, keeps his eyes straight ahead. No looking down. No need to remind himself that the fall might kill him.

Sometimes it’s strangely easy. Like differential calculus. As long as he follows the rules, multiplies the coefficient by the factor of x, carries to the power of n–1, it will work out. 

**Rule #1: Go out with Dick, but only during the day, and only in public places.** This means that you have to be the one to ask him out, which is a good thing anyway. It shows that you’re interested, which you are. Really. You like Richard Grayson, and he likes you. 

**Rule #2: Don’t look at Tommy, don’t talk to Tommy, do what Tommy says. **The fewer bruises you have, the less suspicious Dick will be. The less suspicious Lucas will be. Besides, your mom thinks that you two are finally getting along, so she’s been happier, taking fewer pills. It’s fine. You can handle it. It’s fine.

**Rule #3: Work as many hours as you can. **If you’re working, you can’t make it to another movie night at Dick’s apartment. If you’re working, you can’t go swimming in the Manor pool. Besides, you need the money. Maybe there’s still a chance you can go to college. After all, Gotham University finally sent you that letter. They’re more expensive than TCNJ, but you’d be able to live at home. Take care of your mom.

**Rule #4: Never, ** ** _ever_ ** ** text Dick at night. **If you have to, make it unsexy. You’re doing homework. Washing dishes. Cleaning lint out of the dryers in the basement laundry room, because god knows no one else will do it. 

**Rule #5: Practice being out. **Tell your GU acceptance letter. Tell the dryer lint. Try to find something that sticks, and when it doesn’t, pretend something does. Smile. Think about maybe telling your mom. Chicken out. Smile. You’re living your true self, whatever-the-fuck that means! You have to be something! You can’t just be nothing! 

It becomes so routine that Jason doesn’t even realize that time is passing. Every second there’s something to do, something to be saying. And when everything is filled to the brim, there’s no time to ruminate or brood or whatever, no time to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, wishing he were someone else. 

In the end, the only time he remembers _ time _is when the rules come up:

The first week, he doesn’t break any rules. 

The second week, he breaks Rule #4. Big Time. Now they each have shirtless pictures of each other. Dick is wearing boxers in his. Jason stared at it for a long time, tracing the grooves of muscles with his eyes, imagining the temperature of his core, unsure if the ache he felt was an urge to explore Dick’s skin or if it was just nausea. If he had any free time, he might have wondered what Dick was doing with his picture. 

The third week, he _ almost _ breaks Rule #5 when a woman tells them they are a cute couple, and he _ does _ break Rule #2. Luckily, Tommy doesn’t leave a bruise.

The fourth week, he kind of breaks Rule #3, but that’s not really his fault. Lucas just doesn’t have the hours for him on the weekend. Something about _ shit you’re not certified to do. _

And then it’s May 27th, and he has eight days until he can kiss GHS goodbye forever. No more homework excuses. No more school excuses. Jason will have all the time in the world to be with Dick.

Shit.

After school, Jason hangs out in Harper’s apartment, because a) he doesn’t have work, b) he’s pretty sure Tommy is dropping _ something _off in half an hour, and c) if he’s with Harper and Kyle, then he can call it a study group. 

They don’t do any studying. 

“Watch this,” Harper says, flipping a switch on the controller in her hand. On the table, a tiny robot whirs to life, moves forward six inches, raises a tiny bladed arm, and slices a banana in half. Crawls one inch to the right. Slices again. Right, slice. Right, slice. The banana is in pieces.

“Neat,” Jason says. It’s not the best robot he’s seen Harper program, but it’s far better than anything he’s ever made. No wonder she got a full-ride to Gotham University. 

Kyle picks up the robot and looks it over, moving his fingers away from the slicing arm. “Please tell me this thing isn’t for you-know-what.” 

Harper picks up a piece of banana and tosses it in her mouth. “A commission,” she says, chewing. “Someone just wanted—and I quote—a ‘slicing robot’. The banana was just for show. If I really wanted to hurt someone, I would make a high-powered taser.”

Jason pictures having something like that. Using it on Tommy. God, that would feel so _ good, _ watching the bastard writhe in pain on the linoleum floor, screaming and grunting until he pissed himself. _ Stay the fuck away from us, _Jason would hiss, and for good measure he’d probably punch him in the nose. Break it. Feel the bones crunch beneath his knuckles, feel the blood dripping down his hands—

“What are you thinking about?” Kyle asks.

He blinks. “Nothing. Graduation.”

“Ugh. Right.” Kyle falls down on the couch and lets his head hang over the back. The green in his hair has started to fade, giving it the color of dried grass. His roots are dark brown, almost black. “I just want it to be over already.” 

“Really?”

“Hell yeah. No more finals. More time to draw. More time to hang out with people.”

“And what if people don’t want to hang out with you?” Harper asks, laughing. 

Kyle throws a pillow at her. “You aren’t my only friends,” he replies. 

Three months ago, Jason would have fallen apart if Kyle called him a friend. He wants to believe that it would be in a good way—a, _ someone new cares about me _ kind of way—but then again he knows it wouldn’t have been. It would have been closer to a breakdown. Not because Kyle is bi, but because Jason _ wasn’t and couldn’t be like him. _

“Speaking of studying,” he says, “shouldn’t we be prepping for finals?”

Kyle snorts. “We’re about to graduate. No teacher is giving us a test they _ actually _expect us to study for.”

“Yep.” Harper nods. “Besides, I feel like I know the material.”

“Why do you ask?” asks Kyle. 

Leaning against the wall, Jason scratches the back of his neck. “I told Dick I’d be in a study group this afternoon.”

“What?” Kyle laughs. “Why?”

_ Because I don’t want to hang out with him too much or he’ll want to take it to the Next Level. _“Because that’s what I thought we were doing?” 

Now Harper is laughing too. “Where’d you get that idea?” 

“Don’t know. It’s what I thought, okay?” Jason replies, cursing himself for the tone of his words. They’re harsh, almost venomous. And right after Kyle called him his friend, too. 

“Fuck, man. It was just a question,” Harper says. 

“I know. Sorry.” Jason winces. “I’m um, not feeling great, so I guess I’m a little bit on edge.” 

Kyle looks him over. “You do look kind of sick.”

Is he sick? He feels sick. Not “I’m gonna throw up sick,” but a deeper sick, a more subtle sick. It reminds him of the time he broke one of his mom’s good wine glasses and hid it beneath the sink. Or whenever he opened his email to find a message from a college. Or any time they get a bill, and Jason is ripping open the envelope, wondering, _ is this it? Is this the one we don’t come back from? _

It’s been almost a week since he’s hung out with Dick. What will happen if they hang out again? Will that be the one they don’t come back from?

Jason makes an effort to hide his strained breathing. “I’m gonna head back to my place. It’s my turn to make dinner,” he says, as if it’s ever _ not _his turn to make dinner. 

“You sure?” Harper asks. She pats the seat next to her, a wordless offer: _ there’s always room for you here! _

Grabbing his backpack, he swings it over his shoulder, lets the weight drag him toward the floor. “Yeah. See you guys tomorrow.” 

When he opens the front door and breathes in the familiar scents of unwashed dishes and cheap body spray, he sighs in relief. Tommy isn’t in his apartment. Luck, at last. Rule #2 just about killed him last time, with the way Tommy’s sick brain works.

_ What is this, _ he had asked. _ Try as hard as you want. I’m never gonna let you suck my dick. _

Fuck. He just wanted to _ scream. _

“Mom?” Jason says, dropping his bag off in his room. “Mom, I’m back.” 

Silence. 

_ Shit, _ he thinks. It’s back to that nightmare again, the one where he opens a door and finds her empty body on the floor. Jason knows, rationally, that his mom knows what she’s doing. It’s a sick fucking thought, that she could be an expert at getting high, but it’s the truth. He shouldn’t feel this way. He _ shouldn’t _feel—

The apartment is empty. No one is home, let alone dead. 

Again Jason breathes a sigh of relief. He lets himself fall onto the couch and relax, just for a moment, just long enough to loosen his muscles. Breathe in, breathe out. Like an urban version of yoga, except instead of emptying his mind he fills it to the brim with things to do, tasks to occupy himself. No free time. 

_ That should be Rule #6, _ he thinks. _ If you have free time and don’t hang out with Dick, then you’re the jerk. But if you don’t have free time, then it’s not your fault you can’t hang out! _

Then again, he _ wants _to hang out. He misses Dick. Misses holding his hand, sitting next to them, working out inside jokes that haven’t become inside jokes yet. Maybe what he should do is find people who can go out with him. Like Steph and Cass, or Roy, or Tim. 

He closes his eyes and makes a plan until the sound of his phone makes them constrict once more. Fuck. His body is like a dead insect’s, curled in on itself and so tight it _ crunches. _

Text 1: _ Hey have you eaten yet? _

Text 2: _ I’m guessing you’re not still at your study group :) _

Jason stares at his phone, blinking. He almost replies, _ how do you know that lol, _but then he sees the time on his phone and realizes: he’d fallen asleep. 

The apartment is near-sundown dark, lit in dark hues with the occasional streak of orange. Jason blinks with the sluggishness that only comes, strangely, after he wakes up. Where is he? Who is he? What’s going on? What year is it? 

He’s still staring into space when another text comes through. 

_ The buzzer’s broken can u come outside? _

_ What? _he writes back, but all he gets in response is a smiley face. 

Fuck. Jason walks to the window and looks down at the parking lot, where he sees a hatchback with its headlines on. If he squints, he can almost make out the face of the person sitting on the hood. 

Something warm stirs in his chest.

Scenario: Your maybe-boyfriend shows up unexpectedly outside your apartment after you’ve been trying to avoid him even though you really, really want to see him. You like him a lot and maybe even more than like him, and knowing he did this for you makes you want to hug your pillow and cry. But it’s also almost evening, and you’ve been seeing each other for nearly a month, and you know what _ that _means. Do you:

A: Tell him that you’re working on your fourth consecutive hour of homework,

B: Stab yourself with a paring knife and ask for a ride to the hospital, or

C: Go down and see him, because he’s beautiful and kind and funny and all these things turn you into a fucking idiot who can’t follow his own rules. 

“Your buzzer’s broken,” Dick says when Jason is walking toward his car. This is the fourth time in a row he’s worn a floral button-up and slacks and colorful socks, which makes Jason’s stomach flutter. Maybe he figured out that these things capture Jason’s gaze in a beautiful, agonizing embrace. The way the vines danced across his upper body, the way the colors draw him in like a moth to a flame… 

Jason takes a seat next to Dick on the hood, grinning because despite everything he can’t do anything else. “It’s been broken.” 

“Sucks,” Dick replies. There’s a smile on his face too, only inches away from Jason’s. He wears his better. It’s warmer, with undertones of happiness and humor instead of fear and uncertainty. 

And because Jason’s brain is in Big Dumb mode, he leans over and plants a kiss at the edge of Dick’s smile. “Not used to having visitors,” he says, after. 

He’s gotten better at kissing him. Not in a “better at the act of kissing” way, but a “I can kiss you in a semi-public place and not freak out about being seen” way. The thoughts still linger there, ice-cold and insidious in his chest, but they no longer choke him as they used to.

_ Is this what being out is? _he wonders. 

Dick brushes a lock of hair out of Jason’s face. His fingers are calloused and surprisingly cool. “What can I say? I missed you. Have you been avoiding me or something?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m doing my best,” is all Jason can say. The only truth he can give.

Dick’s smile falters a little bit. Over the past month, Jason’s come to learn little things about him. Or, more accurately, _ not _ learn. It seems like Dick’s wearing that smile _ all the time, _like Happy Dick is a mask he puts on in the morning and takes off at night. And, like a mask, Jason can tell that sometimes there’s something underneath, but he’s too afraid to ask what it might be. Because that gives Dick the right to ask questions too. 

Well, shit. Isn’t this healthy? 

Sighing, Dick leans back and looks up at the apartment building. Jason follows his gaze and wonders what he’ll say if Dick asks to go up. A _no? _What about a _sorry but_ _it’s really a mess right now? _Perhaps he could give him a _shit I left my keys up there, have to wait until my mom gets home! _Or maybe Jason could just say yes and get used to saying yes. Or maybe, just maybe, Jason could tell him the truth. 

Ha! As if. 

“Brought you this,” Dick says suddenly, pressing something cold into Jason’s hands. A half-pint of chocolate ice cream. “Figured you deserved it since you’ve been studying so much. Sorry if it melted a little bit.” 

Jason blinks. “You drove over here to give me ice cream?” 

“Is that not allowed?” 

“It’s not that,” he replies quickly. “It’s just…really sweet.” 

Dick’s eyes sparkle in the fading sunlight. “Well, it does have a lot of sugar.” 

“Don’t make me hit you with a spoon.” A pause. “Did you bring any spoons?” 

“Yep. Hold on.” He reaches behind him, then pauses. “Fuck.”

“You forgot.”

“I forgot.” 

Shit. _ Shit. _

Jason stares at the asphalt of the parking lot, following the cracks until they end at the sidewalk. Some kind of bug is marching into a storm drain. He thinks about taking its place, being a bug. His whole purpose in life would be to live for two days, fertilize some bug eggs, and then die. Simple. Easy. 

At last he swallows, hands the half-pint back to Dick, then lets his body weight pull him off the hood and to the ground. “It’s okay. I’ll be right back,” he says, practically running so that Dick won’t—

“I’ll keep you company,” Dick says. 

“No,” Jason replies. Too quickly. Too _ fearfully. _

If Dick notices his tone of voice, he’s hiding his reaction well. Or maybe he doesn’t care. “It’s cool,” he says, “if you don’t want me to see a mess or something, I can guarantee that my apartment is way worse.” 

_ Is it though? _“It’ll just be a moment,” he replies. 

Dick laughs. “Well, I’ll still go up. I don’t want to miss a moment with you.” 

Jason chews the inside of his cheek as he blushes, thinking of all the things there are to be afraid of. Being alone with Dick. Dick finding his mom’s drugs. Tommy popping in unexpectedly. All of the above, not necessarily in that order.

But Dick is already walking toward the door, and Jason _ wants _ to be alone with him, _ needs _ to be alone with him, but he doesn’t _ know _ if he _ can. _

He is a millimeter from screaming. 

When Jason unlocks the door, he can feel Dick standing beside him, smell the earthy tones of his cologne, follow the strokes of light reflected in his hair. His abdomen clenches. It’s that vague, unrelenting want again. That fucking _ imperfect _ want. The one that wants to kiss Dick, and hold him, and _ know _ and _ be known _by him, but for some stupid reason has no desire at all to have sex with him. 

“It’ll just be a moment,” he says again, thinking, _ please. _Please don’t let there be any pill containers out. Please don’t let the furniture look cheap. Please don’t let it smell like cigarettes. Please don’t let Dick find out about anything. 

How many rules is this breaking? All of them? All of them.

“Your apartment’s cute,” Dick says. He’s lying—it’s so painfully obvious to Jason that his apartment could never be _ cute— _but it’s still enough to quell his unsteady pulse. 

_ This isn’t _ so _ bad. _

“Thanks,” he mutters. As he walks deeper into the space, his eyes flicker left to right, scanning for orange bottles or needles or any other red flags. Nothing, nothing… Does a can of beer count? He swipes it just in case, placing it gently into the recycling bin so it doesn’t make a sound. “I haven’t cleaned in a while. Sorry.”

“Like I said. My apartment. Is this you?” 

Jason looks over. Dick is holding up a photo of him from some time before he lost his baby fat. Eight? Nine? He’s round-faced but tiny, looking like a shrimp on a swing set. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah.”

“You’re adorable.”

“Am or was?”

Dick sets down the picture and grabs the only other one on the shelf. Jason, age three, holding a red balloon. “Both, obviously.” 

“Aww,” he replies, grabbing two spoons from the drawer and checks for scorch marks or misshapen handles. “Though you were probably a cuter kid than I was.”

“Mmm I don’t know. You can judge for yourself next time you come over to the manor. Alfred loves to bring out the album. Got the spoons?”

“Yep.” Jason twirls them in his fingers. The words are pressing on his lips—_ let’s get out of here— _when he hears footsteps on the other side of the door, the clink of a key struggling to orient itself in the lock.

Dick notices too. He looks at the door, then at Jason, one eyebrow raised as if to say, _ should I open it? _

_ You don’t know who it could be, _Jason thinks, but can’t bring himself to say. Time has stopped. Time is moving, but it stopped. The whole world is him, and Dick, and the door, which twists with each non-second until it takes the shape of an infinite, gaping mouth. 

_ You don’t know who it could be. You don’t want to find out. _

And then it’s open, and his mom all but stumbles inside. Alone. 

Jason nearly cries in relief, but instead finds himself moving calmly, rationally. He puts himself between her and Dick before he can smell the sharp concoction of liquor radiating from her pores, the wide expanse of her pupils. 

“Oh hey Mom,” he says, doing his best impression of a regular teen. _ Hey Mom! How was your book club? Hey Mom! Did you have a good day at work? _

“Jace?” Not slurred, thank god. She blinks rapidly, like he had just turned on the lights at three in the morning. “What are you doing?”

“We’re just heading out,” Jason says. 

Without looking, he can tell that Dick is both smiling and shuffling awkwardly. Shit. He has to do it, doesn’t he? 

“This is Dick, by the way,” he adds, careful not to add anything about what they are to each other. He can’t disappoint either of them if he cuts it off there. “Dick, this is… this is Catherine.”

Dick smiles brightly and extends a hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says. 

Jason watches his mom watch Dick’s hand. _ Come on, _ he thinks. _ Don’t make this worse. _

Finally, _ finally, _she takes his hand and shakes it. “Nice to meet you,” she repeats, then giggles as if the whole thing was a joke. “You’re Jason’s friend?”

A pause. “I’d like to think so,” Dick replies. “Hasn’t he mentioned me before?”

_ Fuck. _He can’t decide what’s worse: the question, or the fact that his mom ignores Dick entirely.

“Jase,” she says sweetly. “I have some friends that want to come over. Are you gonna be here long?”

An out. He takes it quickly. “We’ll get out of here right now,” he says, grabbing Dick’s hand—_ I like you, I swear! _—and practically pulling him out of the door. At the last moment, he remembers to say a goodbye over his shoulder. That’s what normal children do, right?

They’re almost outside before either of them speaks again. 

“I, uh, forgot the spoons,” Jason says. 

A pause.

“Guess we’re even now,” Dick replies.

“I can go back up.”

“If you want to.”

He doesn’t. “How do you feel about using fingers?” he tries, but it doesn’t feel as funny as he thought it would be. 

Dick shrugs, looking again inside his bag as if what they needed would magically appear. “Sanitary,” he says. “Your mom seems, um, fun.” 

The statement takes Jason off-guard. It’s half a second before he’s able to say, “She’s not always like that. Friday nights, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It’s like he’s playing a game of what’s worse?_ What’s worse? Dick finding out about your life, or Dick finding out that you’re not attracted to him in a sexual way? What’s worse? Him thinking you come from a broken home, or him thinking that you’ve been lying about liking him? _

Well. One of those he can hide better than the other. Rule #1 can go fuck itself. 

“What about your place?” Jason asks, the words shaky on his tongue. 

Dick blinks. “My place?”

“I don’t really feel like hanging out in a parking lot.” _ Especially if Mom’s “friends” are gonna be filtering in and out of the building. _

“You sure?”

“Yes,” Jason says, thinking, _ I have no fucking idea. _

After Jason jumps into Dick’s car, he finds himself fixated on the window controls. He wonders if he’ll be able to roll it down in time, when anxiety turns to nausea and becomes too much for him to handle.

***

This is what Jason would have thought about Dick’s apartment:

Dick was right. It is a mess, but not a horrible one. Nothing is molding or covered in dust; in fact it smells nice, like lemon-scented soap. The mess is more object-oriented: books, clothes, empty glasses. If he were thinking about it, the apartment would have reminded Jason of what his own apartment could have been, if he lived a normal life and could afford generically nice furniture.

But he wasn’t thinking about it. Instead his mind became fixated on the first part, turning it over and over again until he could feel the words crashing against the inside of his skull like a clapper of a bell. 

_ Dick’s apartment. _

_ Dick’s apartment. _

_ Dick’s apartment. _

The couch squeaks as Dick falls down onto it. Jason follows suit quickly, partly because he wants to feel the heat of Dick’s body next to his, and partly because he doesn’t think he can stand anymore. 

“The good news is,” Dick says, squeezing the half-pints, “I don’t think they melted too much.”

“That is good news.”

Handing one of them to Jason, Dick adds, “I also brought mint chip, if you like it better than chocolate. Unfortunately they were all out of cookie dough.”

Jason thinks he just might explode. He stares at Dick’s lips, wanting to kiss him again, run his hands through his hair, thank him for being so kind and apologize for not deserving it. He wants to tell him the truth. He doesn’t want to tell him the truth. He wants to cry. 

But he doesn’t do any of that. Instead he says, “You’re the worst boyfriend ever and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

In the pause that follows, he realizes what he said. Now he wants to cry _ and _shove ice cream on his face, if only to cool the fire falling from his hairline. 

“Boyfriend?” Dick says. He speaks like he’s tasting the word. 

Jason swears. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said—shit.”

“You called me your boyfriend.”

“I know.”

Dick fiddles with the container in his hands, passing it from palm to palm. “Am I your boyfriend?” 

Question: How do you respond to that question? 

Answer: Fuck if you know. 

“If you want to be,” he says at last.

“I’d like that.” 

“Cool,” Jason replies, because he has _ all _the words today. 

Dick wiggles the container of ice cream. “But not as cool as this, amiright?” 

“It’s melted.”

“You ungrateful bastard.”

“Fuck off,” Jason laughs. 

“Actually I’m gonna stay right here with my _ boyfriend,” _Dick says, kissing him on the temple. 

Jason’s skin sings with the imprint of his lips. He shuffles because he doesn’t know how to contain the sudden burst of life inside him. Finally, he says, “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know about you,” Dick begins, wagging a spoon—fucking spoon—in the air, “but I think I’m gonna eat this.”

“Wow. I never would have thought of that.”

Dick leans into him, until Jason is supporting both of their weights. His hair is soft against Jason’s neck, smelling of coconut and honey and something vaguely and deliciously floral. “Good thing you have me, then,” he says. 

It is a good thing. A very good thing. Jason can hardly eat; his instincts are telling him to watch Dick instead, track each curve of his body, memorize the way his muscles shift and his tendons flex, breathe him in until they are sharing the same space. The sofa is cool when he puts his hand on it but the rest of him is burning. At some point, Dick slips further down Jason’s body, and then his head is on Jason’s lap, and his bright blue eyes are looking up at him, and Jason doesn’t even know what is being said, because how could he? But Jason knows he’s talking, he has to be, because his mouth is moving. Or maybe he’s just gaping at the beautiful boy lying across his body. Or maybe his jaw is trembling as it always does before he starts to cry.

“Can I kiss you?” Dick asks.

Jason thinks he says, “You can always kiss me.” 

Searing lips. His whole body shivers even though Dick’s just touching his arms. No, his shoulders. No, his neck, jaw, back, stomach, arms again. They’re rolling in each other’s mouths. _ I can do this, _ Jason thinks. He touches back. Someone moans; both of them shudder. Teeth on his neck. Dick is muttering, “Shirt off?” and Jason says yes. Then his shirt is off too, because he’s supposed to be into it, and he is, and oh god, Dick is straddling him, and he _ likes _it. “You’re amazing,” Jason is saying, shivering. “Fucking amazing.” 

And suddenly they’re not kissing anymore. Jason hums in disappointment, his body still caught in the gravity of Dick’s. “What?” he mutters. 

Dick reaches out, pushes a strand of hair out of Jason’s eyes. His touch is wildfire. “How are you feeling?” he asks. 

Jason pulls him close again and leans forward until they are sharing each other’s breaths. “Great,” he replies, and brings their mouths together. Closed. Open. Tongue. 

There’s a hand on his waist. The pinky slips over his abdomen, tracing the outline of his hip. Closed. Open. Tongue. Gone. Dick’s voice is hot against his jaw, the underside of his ear. “Fuck, Jay,” he whispers, his fingers brushing against the zipper of Jason’s jeans. Tugging. Releasing. “Can I?”

And.

It’s.

Over.

Jason freezes. As in _ freezes. _ As in, every muscle of his body locks tight, and his blood turns to ice, and a single breath is all it would take to shatter him. “I…” he begins, but the words can’t make it past his teeth. He’s seeing Dick but he hears Isabel’s voice. _ We need to break up. We need to break up. _

“Jay?”

“I’m not…” is all he can say. I’m not what? I’m not _ what? _Somehow his thoughts are racing and trapped at once, like a hamster running on a wheel. Going nowhere. Going nowhere. If he says no, Dick will want to know why. If he says yes, Dick will know he’s just pretending, and he’ll want to know why. 

_ We need to break up. _

Jason is still trapped in his paralysis. He can hear Dick saying his name, but it sounds like a woman’s voice, not Isabel’s, and there’s someone on top of him, _ on top of him, _and he can’t do it, and he can’t breathe. 

Then the weight lifts from his body as Dick slips off of him. Jason gasps for air and draws his knees into his chest, desperate to feel himself untouched, safe. 

“Fuck,” Dick says. “Sorry. I thought—I mean, you called me your boyfriend, and I thought…you know. Are you okay? You’re shaking.”

Not okay. Not okay. Jason is rocking back and forth now, hugging his knees into his chest until they threaten to crack. His mind is completely empty. All he sees, tastes, feels, smells is nothing. 

“Shit. I’m so sorry.”

Nothing. 

“Jason, talk to me.” 

Finally, _ painfully, _he is able to force out, “I’m sorry.”

Dick placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“I—” Big breath in, big breath out. Slowly, he unravels. _ Shake it off. Smile. _“It’s nothing,” he says.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“Jay.” Dick’s eyes are narrow, serious. “Tell. Me.”

“I’m not lying,” Jason lies. 

“Oh my god,” Dick breathes. Something simmers beneath his voice. “I’m not _ stupid. _You just had a fucking panic attack! What’s going on?”

“Noth—”

“Is it me?” 

“No! I just—”

“Is it your ex?”

“Dick, I—”

“Then what _ is _it?”

“It’s _ me!” _ Jason cries, burying his head in his hands. “It’s _ me, _ alright? You’re beautiful and amazing and I want you, but not like _ that, _ okay?”

Dick blinks. “What?”

_ And this is the part where he tells you you’re fucked up. _“I mean,” Jason says quickly. “I can, I will, because I like you, and you’re hot, and—shit.” 

Without thinking he pulls Dick into a kiss, makes it as rich and strong and _ deep _as he can. Keep kissing. Keep kissing. Dick’s hand on his chest. Good? No, pushing him away. 

“You’re so hot,” Jason says again. No, cries. His voice wrought with urgency, with the last-ditch effort to get Dick to _ please don’t throw me away. _“I swear I wasn’t lying to you, or stringing you along, or—Fuck, Dick. Please. Here.” He struggles to undo the button of his jeans, but his fingers are slick and weak and he can’t do it and there’s another hand on his own and—

“Don’t,” Dick says softly. 

Jason stops. His mouth is dry. 

“So you’re telling me that you’re asexual?”

“I guess,” Jason says, wanting to curl up and die. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” No anger. No disgust. Only disappointment. _ Why didn’t you tell me? _

“Because no one would want a partner like me.”

Now Dick is frowning. “Do you really think I’m that shallow? After everything?”

“This is different,” Jason says.

“Shallow is shallow, Jay!” Dick replies. “I mean, fuck. Do you think I would just break up with you on the spot?” 

“Yes?”

“What the fuck.”

“I’m sorry.” Jason stands, grabs his shirt from the floor. “I’ll go. I can take a bus back. I’m sorry.” 

“Sit back down,” Dick snaps, pulling him back. “You don’t walk away. Not now.” 

Jason blinks. “So you’re not breaking up with me?” 

“Which part of this conversation gave you that idea? Shit!” Dick throws his head back and lets out a bitter laugh. Then he stops, and his face falls to something gentle. “I just…I wish you told me,” he says quietly. 

Jason feels as if he’s crumbling like soft clay. “So you’re not breaking up with me?” he says again, still not sure if he heard Dick correctly. 

“No, Jay. I’m not.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you and I trust that we can make it work.” 

Crumbling, crumbling. “And if we don’t?”

An eternity passes. Then Dick sighs. “We don’t need to worry about that right now, okay?”

“Okay.” 

“Will you talk to me, next time? We can’t make it work if you don’t talk to me.”

“Okay.”

Silence settles between them. Jason scratches his arms, feeling the cool air of the apartment sink into his bare skin. Beside him, Dick is staring at the coffee table, twisting his hands together. 

“Your ice cream melted,” Dick says, after a moment.

“That’s fine,” Jason replies. 

“Not a huge fan of chocolate?” 

“No, I like it. I just had, uh, other things on my mind.”

A hand snakes into his own. “Heh,” Dick says, leaning into Jason like nothing has changed. “You can say that again.”

Jason leans into Dick until they are supporting each other. They sit like this, for a while, saying nothing. 

Then, a break in the silence. “Want to make out again?” Dick asks. 

Jason thinks for a moment, then says, “Not right now.” 

“Cool. Movie?”

“Comedy.” 

Dick winks as he leans forward to grab the remote. “You got it, babe,” he says, and Jason almost bursts into tears. 

At least they would have been good ones, this time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Pride, everyone. 
> 
> (also, [I drew Harper and Kyle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24158431/chapters/59077282))


	21. Only Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, y'all. The DCU Bang and Jaydick exchange are killing me right now.
> 
> As much as it frightens me to admit it, this chapter marks the start of the final arc of this story. I don't have the remaining chapters outlined quite yet (<strike>because I don't outline lol</strike>), but there will likely be between 3--5 chapters remaining. I will update the chapter count when I know for certain. 
> 
> **warnings for this chapter**: abuse, discussions of underage drinking and non-con.

Jason Todd is a high school graduate. 

_ Jason Todd  _ is a high school graduate.

Jason Todd is a  _ high school graduate. _

_ Jason Todd is a high school graduate.  _

His diploma is sitting on his bedside table, safe inside the little cardboard folder they gave him. The Sunday after his graduation, Jason keeps glancing at it, waiting for it to...what? Disappear? Burst into flames? Tell him it’s proud of him? 

The whole thing feels unreal even as it feels underwhelming. 

On the one hand, yes, he did it. He did it even though his mom dropped out. He did it even though his dad sure dropped out. He did it while working part-time and playing sports and getting good grades and doing all that self-discovery shit. 

But on the other hand, it’s not over. In the end all he really did was walk across the stage. His life didn’t change. He still can’t afford college, he’s still living in a shitty apartment, his mom is still doing drugs, Tommy is still going to hurt them both, and he still doesn’t know if anything will ever get better.

At least he has Dick. 

Nothing has changed since the Friday before, but it all feels so different. He’s lighter. Unfettered. When he flirts with Dick—and who knew it could be so easy to flirt with Dick, so incredibly easy—his stomach doesn’t twist itself into a knot. His heart flutters for a different reason. And Dick tells him that he’s hot, and Jason tells him that  _ he’s  _ hot, and then they’re laughing because they sound so fucking stupid. 

There’s an envelope hidden in one of his books, a bright blue one with a heart next to his name. They didn’t have a lot of time to talk, because Dick was going to a Wayne Enterprises thing and Jason had to return his graduation gown by two or risk a fifty dollar fine.  _ Sorry I missed it,  _ Dick said, and Jason replied,  _ It was fucking boring.  _ Then Dick made some quip about dating someone his own age, and kissed him, and even though they were in a public parking lot Jason didn’t mind because the kiss was the realest thing he had felt all day. In close second: the even weight of a rollerball pen between his fingers, a graduation gift from Dick. 

_ For your notes, nerd.  _

“What do you have there?” his mom asks from the doorway. 

Jason looks down. Somehow the diploma has migrated from his nightstand into his hands, opened up to display the small piece of paper inside.  _ JASON PETER TODD has satisfactorily completed the course of studies prescribed by this school in accordance with the requirements of the State Board of Education and is therefore awarded this DIPLOMA. June 4, 2016.  _

He holds it up for her to see.

She squints for half a moment before her face softens in recognition. “Oh my god I forgot already,” she says, holding out her arms in a  _ hug your mother  _ gesture. 

Jason’s stomach clenches as he stands and lets her wrap her arms around his midsection. She smells like cigarettes and some strong, fruity spray. It’s what she always wears, after she starts drinking. As if the smell of liquor isn’t lurking underneath. 

“I’m so proud of you, Jacey,” she mutters into his sweatshirt.

Licking his lips, he says, “Thanks, Mom.” 

“Hmm. What are you going to do now?” 

“I, um, got into a couple of schools,” Jason replies, not knowing what else to tell her.

“What?” She pulls away, glaring at him the best she can through heavy, blinking eyelids. “You didn’t tell me that!”

_ I told you. Twice.  _ “Yeah.”

His mom shakes her head furiously. “You can’t go. You’re not ready for college.”

“Mom—”

“I can’t leave you alone,” she says, reaching down to squeeze his hand gently. “You’re my baby, Jace. You can’t…how do I even know you’re ready?”

Jason can’t help but scoff. He’s been old for years, for as long as he can remember. Lifting hubcaps from “unwanted” cars with Dad. Watching Mom dump pills down her throat. Working. Paying rent. 

But he doesn’t say these things.

“I don’t even know if I’m going to go,” he replies, thinking of the money. If he works full-time for two years, then maybe—

“You don’t need college,” she says. “You can find a job here. Tommy might have something, you know.”

A sickness spreads throughout his lower abdomen. “That son of a bitch doesn’t know shit.”

“Jesus, Jason.” Her upper lip curls in annoyance. For the first time, he notices how brittle her auburn hair is, like bits of straw poking through a hair band. “Don’t talk like that.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry I said bad things about the dealer who likes to beat up teenagers. I should have known better.”

“Watch your fucking mouth!”

“He’s a bad guy,” Jason replies. He doesn’t even try to hide the frustration in his voice. “The stuff he’s doing here—he’s gonna get you arrested, you know that?” 

“That won’t—”

“Hell, I’m an adult! This is my goddamn problem too!” Jason laughs bitterly as he sits back down on his bed, itching to get away from the smell of liquor on his mom’s skin. “Maybe I won’t go to college. Maybe I’ll go to prison instead! Just like Dad!”

His mom reaches into her bathrobe pocket and pulls out a cigarette box and lighter. “Unbelievable,” she mutters. “Fucking unbelievable.” 

“Don’t smoke in here,” Jason snaps. 

The flame disappears. She stares at him for half a second before letting out a long, heavy breath. Her face softens. “I’m sorry, baby,” she says, crossing the short distance between them to plant a kiss on his hairline. “You know how this makes me upset.”

_ Everything makes you upset.  _ “Okay.”

“I just don’t want you to leave. You’re my baby.”

“I’m fine,” he lies. 

There is a dull  _ click  _ as she lights the end of her cigarette. The smell hits him hard before she even exhales. “How am I gonna take care of you when you’re away?” she asks. 

“You don’t need to take care of me.”

“Of course I do.”

Jason stares at the fibers of the carpet, and says nothing. He can feel her kneeling down in front of him, feel her tired eyes falling over his face. 

“What’s this really about?” she asks. Smoke rises lazily from her cigarette. “Jace, what aren’t you telling me?”

_ I have a boyfriend,  _ he thinks. But he can’t say that, not now. Because if she reacts badly—a possibility that festers like rotting meat inside him—then she’ll make it about college, and then he’d be losing two things. 

“Nothing,” he says. 

“Girl problems?”

The words are a sledgehammer to his chest. Shit. He needs to get out of here. His room feels so hot, so small, that it’s like he’s trapped in a microwave. Any second now he’s gonna spark and set the place ablaze. 

“Jason?” she asks, when he pushes past her to find his boots by the front door. 

“I have to go to work,” he mumbles. Another lie. Why is he  _ always _ lying? 

“Oh.”

One boot done. He moves to the other. “I’ll be back later.”

“What time?” 

“Dunno.” When his other boot is laced, he checks his phone. “Seven-ish?”

“Oh,” she says again. “What if you come back later?”

Jason sighs. “I won’t.”

“No, I mean—” His mom places the butt of the cigarette against her closed lips, clearly thinking. “Tommy is going to be here for a little bit, so maybe you should—”

“Right,” he says, grabbing his keys from the hook by the door. “Bye, Mom.” 

She doesn’t call after him when he leaves.

As it turns out, he didn’t lie. Not really. Only a little.

“I have a question,” Jason says. 

Lucas throws down the bundle of scrap wood in his arms. “Where’d you come from?” he asks, wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his flannel shirt. 

“Bus stop.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t remember scheduling you.” 

“You didn’t.”

“I know. Helmet up and hit me.”

Jason grabs a nearby safety helmet and tosses it on his head haphazardly. The dust trapped inside tumbles over his face, catching in his eyelashes. “Can I work full-time?” he asks. 

Lucas pauses, looking at him like his skin turned green. His brow is furrowed slightly, his upper lip pulled tight. “You want to work full-time?” 

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

_ To get out of my apartment. To avoid my mom’s dealer. To make money. To pay for college. To prove I’m not gonna end up a nobody jailbird like my dad.  _

He chooses the best option. The safest. 

“School is gonna be expensive,” Jason says, as casually as he can. “And I’m free all summer.” 

A moment passes.

“Okay. First of all,” Lucas begins, “congratulations for graduating. I’m real proud of you, kid.” 

Jason shrugs off the complement, staring at the dirt to hide his heating face. 

“And second: do you really want to work full-time?”

“Yep.”

“What about…” Lucas gestures vaguely, but that doesn’t matter. They both know who he’s talking about. 

Jason shrugs again. “He works too.”

“You’re a kid. You should be having fun. Going to parties. Doing dumb shit.”

“I don’t want to go to parties.”  _ Not anymore.  _

“Yeah, well, they’re not for everyone.” 

“Besides,” Jason continues, eager to chase away thoughts of wandering hands, “I can have fun after five too.”

“Heh. You sound like an alcoholic.” 

_ Aaaand _ he’s still thinking about parties. And that fogginess he gets when he’s drinking. And girls with pale hair and wandering hands and lips that taste like gummy bears. “Can I work full-time?” Jason asks again. 

Lucas holds up his hands. “I’ll do my best,” he says. “I’ll talk to the guys in management. See if they want to take on another full-time employee.” 

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” He tips his hard hat, grinning. Then his face falls back into its neutral state. “Hey. You got plans Wednesday night?” 

_ Plans. Like a party. Things happen at parties.  _

Jason swallows the nausea crawling up his throat. “Is that…is something happening Wednesday?” 

“Maybe. We’re going out again,” he replies, nodding his head toward the people scattered around the site. “I’d be happy to buy you shit to celebrate your graduation. Non-alcoholic, obviously. I’m not a scoundrel.” 

“You aren’t.” 

“Of course not,” Lucas laughs. “Anyway, you coming?”

“Maybe.” 

“Invite Grayson too. I want to talk to him about his  _ intentions _ with you.”

“What are you, my dad?” Jason scoffs. 

His boss laughs again. “God, I’d hope not,” he says. “You’re a pain in the ass. Coming over here, interrupting my work…” 

Right. Jason scratches his forearm, suddenly not smiling anymore. He thinks about his mom, about all the times he’s fucked up at home and at school. Fuck. Maybe it  _ is  _ a miracle he graduated high school. “Sorry,” he mumbles. 

Lucas waves him off. “Eh. I don’t mind. I’m fucking sick of this project, anyway,” he says, leaning against the post. “Almost makes me want to work in the suburbs instead.”

“Suburbs,” Jason repeats, not sure what else to say. “Look, Lucas, I’ve gotta run. Something, um…I’ve got to be home to sign something. A delivery.” 

“A delivery.” Lucas crosses his arms over his chest, looking like he doesn’t believe him. “What’cha getting?”

“Stuff,” he replies, because he’s an idiot. 

“You alright? You look like shit.”

Jason’s pretty sure he looks worse than that. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Lucas asks. He’s standing up straight now, looking down at Jason like it’s possible to see past his skull and into his thoughts. Maybe it is. Jason’s pretty sure Lucas knows  _ something.  _ But his boss would never make him tell the truth—or at least, Jason thinks that’s the case. 

“Yep,” he says. “Fine.”

“Okay,” Lucas says slowly. Bending down to pick up a bit of cord, he adds, “Say hi to your mom for me.” 

_ Shit.  _ He really does know  _ something.  _

As Jason wanders aimlessly down the street—can’t go home, not with Tommy there—he wonders how obvious it really is.  _ We all know your mom doesn’t really have cancer,  _ Grant had said. Maybe it’s something about the way he speaks, the way he acts. Maybe he’s not as good a liar as he thought he was, and people figure that kids like him only lie for one reason. 

Or maybe there’s something intrinsic about it. Maybe the things that make his mom are baked into him too. Flashing beneath the thin membrane of his skin, drifting through his pores and into other people’s brains. How long before he falls apart? How long before he picks up a box of pills, a needle, and ends up choking on a bathroom floor? 

In the time it takes to find the nearest bookstore, he has already started to wonder if it’s true. After all, how many nights has he spent drunk on the kitchen floor? How many weeknight parties has he gone to? How many girls has he made out with, trying to prove something he knows to be untrue? How many of them—

_ Nope,  _ Jason thinks, falling into a chair at the back of the bookstore. His eyes find the rows of books next to him. True Crime. Golden State Killer, and shit. A whole shelf full of killers, dealers, and rapists. 

He wonders if he’ll feel better or worse, picking one of them up. 

***

They meet outside the bar and grill, a full half-hour before Lucas told him to get there. Jason figures it’s best to be early, that waiting is better than being watched as they walk inside. Besides, they haven’t talked face-to-face since Saturday. A lifetime. As Jason approaches Dick, he is already buzzing in anticipation of his touch. 

_ Safe.  _

“Hey,” Dick says, threading his fingers through Jason’s. Warm. Soft. A little callused around the knuckles. Jason melts into the touch as much as he can, holding on for his life. 

“Hey.”

Dick’s eyes glint almost purple in the red neons outside the restaurant. “You look nice.”

Jason scoffs. “Not as good as you,” he says, his gaze falling down the front of Dick’s body. “How many floral shirts do you own, anyway?” 

“As many as it would take to please you,” Dick replies sweetly. Too sweet. 

“Am I that obvious?”

Dick laughs, dragging Jason toward the entrance of the grill. “To be fair,” he says, pushing open the door. A blast of warm air greets them. “I look pretty good in floral print.” 

After the hostess seats them a booth near the bar, Jason says, “Everyone looks good in floral print.” 

“Mmm.” Dick squints, eyeing Jason up and down. “You wouldn’t. Your coloring isn’t quite right. You could do a Hawaiian shirt. With the right pattern, obviously.” 

Jason fingers the edge of his napkin. After a moment, he says, “That’s a pretty gay thing to say.”

“Shit,” Dick replies. “You got me. I’m pretty gay."

“Had me fooled.” 

Smirking, Dick leans closer. He smells like something delicate and citrusy. “Guess I’ll have to try harder to convince you, then,” he mutters.

Jason’s eyes flicker to the table next to them before he remembers that he’s not supposed to be doing that anymore. That he’s with Dick, and when he’s with Dick what other people think isn’t supposed to matter. 

“You know,” he says, picking at the edge of his napkin, “I didn’t think you were, before I met you at the center.” 

“What?” Dick sits up straight, stifling a snort. “No way. Really?” 

Jason nods.

“Wo-ow. Your gaydar is crap.”

“Yep.”

“Well at least you  _ aced  _ your sexuality test,” Dick says, grinning. 

It takes Jason a moment to catch the joke. When he does, his gut twists ever-so-slightly, like a kink in a hose. “You know it,” he replies, staring at the table. 

Humming, Dick flips open the menu and runs his fingers down the list of drinks. “Lucas chose this place?” he asks. 

“Dunno.” His napkin is turning into confetti, a small pile of white beside the menu. Jason tries to remind himself that it’s okay, that Dick  _ knows  _ and  _ doesn’t care,  _ but the reminder does little good. “Maybe.” 

“Citrus Peach Cooler. That’s a good one.” 

“Never had it.” 

“It’s peach-flavored,” Dick says.

Jason rolls his eyes. “Shocker.”

“What can I say? I’m full of surprises tonight.” 

“I’d say,” Jason replies, right as the waitress appears beside their table. 

“Hi,” she says, her voice ripe with enthusiasm. When she smiles, it’s directed at Jason: no teeth, one corner of the mouth pulled higher than the other. “My name’s Maureen, and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I get you started off with anything?”

“We’re still waiting for some people,” Jason says, not sure where to look. He can  _ feel  _ her smile. 

“Drinks, then?” she asks sweetly. 

Dick nods. “Just water for now, thanks.” 

“Water. And for you, cutie?” 

Jason scratches the back of his head. “Water’s fine.” 

“Aww.” Maureen cocks her hip to one side and giggles. “You sure?” 

“Yep.”

“Sounds  _ awesome,”  _ she replies, bending down to pick up the drink menu in the middle of their table. Her fingers pause on the plastic cover, almost tracing the words on the page. “So you’re done with this?” 

Dick pushes the menu into her hands. “Don’t need it.  _ Thanks.” _

“Alright alright. Two waters, and a new napkin,” Maureen says, winking at Jason before she sashaying over to the bar. “Let me know if you need  _ anything  _ else. I’m here for you all night.” 

The moment she’s gone, Jason feels Dick staring at the back of his head. 

“What?” he asks.

“She was flirting with you,” Dick says, unable to hide his incredulous smile.

“No she wasn’t. She’s being nice.”

“I wait tables too, you know,” Dick replies. “I know the difference between being nice and strutting my stuff,  _ cutie.” _

Realization strikes him. “Shit.”

“God, you’re adorable. Almost like—” He stops suddenly as Maureen appears at their table again, waters in tow. 

“Here we are,” she says, setting them down. Her smile has grown wider, and the top button of her shirt has come undone. “Water, and—” She stops suddenly, placing a finger on her lips. “You wanted water, right?” 

Jason realizes the question is directed at him. “Yes?”

“Oh god.” She laughs loudly. “Total brain fart moment. Sorry!” 

Wow. He’d have to be really thick to miss that. 

Jason glances at Dick, who is sitting still with a  _ look  _ on his face. Maybe amused, maybe jealous. Maybe both. 

“It’s alright,” he says. 

Maureen laughs again. “Long day, you know?” 

“I get it.” Nodding his head toward Dick, Jason adds, “You should see what my boyfriend says after his shift.”

There’s a brief pause before recognition flickers over her face. “Totally,” she says slowly, cheeks flushing red. “Let me know when you two are ready to order.” 

The moment she’s gone, Jason feels Dick’s hand on his. He looks up to see a pair of bright blue eyes and a shy smile. 

“I love hearing you call me your boyfriend,” Dick says. 

Jason wants to melt into the booth. “What else would I call you?” 

“That’s not what I meant. It’s just—” He sighs loudly, leaning back. The sudden absence of his hand freezes Jason’s skin. “It can be hard. Believe me, I know. Every new person you meet forces you back in the closet.” 

“If this is your ‘it’s get better’ talk, it’s not a very good one,” Jason replies. 

“I’m being serious.” 

“I’m not good at serious.” 

Dick lets out a low chuckle. “Yeah,” he says. “I know. It’d take a crowbar to pry you open.” 

A different voice: “I’m not interrupting something, am I?”

Jason looks up to see Lucas standing over them, arms crossed and mouth open in that wicked grin of his. “Nope,” he replies. 

“Great.” Lucas slides into the space next to him. “Hey, Grayson.”

Dick throws him a smile that makes Jason’s stomach clench. “Hey, Trent.” 

“How’s it going?”

“It’s going.”

“Love to hear it. You two order yet?” 

“No,” Jason replies. His face is suddenly hot. “Where’s everyone else?” 

Lucas shrugs. “Coming,” he says, nodding his head toward the door. “Andrew couldn’t make it tonight. Wanted me to tell you that he’s, quote, ‘happy for you’ and that I should, quote, ‘tell you you look cute together.’” 

“Aw,” Dick says, as Jason feels his ears go hot. 

“Seriously though,” Lucas continues. “It was painful, watching you two.”

Jason mumbles something stupid and starts playing with his napkin again. For some reason he can’t quite place, he feels wrong. Not sick to his stomach, just  _ off.  _ It could be the smell of liquor coming from the bar, or maybe the chorus of conversations rising from the tables around them. It’s too busy in here, too neon, too loud. 

Like some sort of party.

As the night moves forward he pays vague attention to the conversation, only piping up occasionally to answer the things directed at him. 

No, I don’t know where I’m going yet. Probably Gotham University? No, I don’t have summer plans. Um, Citrus Peach Cooler, I guess. Thanks. I’m fine with sweet potato fries. Nah, I’m just not that hungry, I guess. Yeah, I’m fine. Yeah, my mom is fine too. Nope. Yep. It feels kinda weird, actually. 

By the time Maureen comes and hands Lucas the check—smiling apologetically at Dick, not looking at Jason at all—he can’t  _ wait  _ to get home, can’t  _ wait  _ to crawl into bed and curl into a ball. 

As they leave, Jason thanks Lucas, who waves him off.

“My pleasure, kid,” he says. “Congrats on the graduation.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Sure it isn’t.” Lucas’ eyes fall to Dick. “Oh, and Grayson?” 

“What?” 

“Hurt him, and I’ll kill you.” 

Dick laughs. “Who could possibly hurt him?” he replies, grabbing Jason’s hand and squeezing tightly. 

Jason doesn’t say what he is thinking. 

***

Dick offers to drive him home, because of course he does. A small part of Jason wishes he didn’t have to be such a burden, but then again he’ll take any chance he can get to be with Dick, talk with Dick, watch the streetlights color his face red and green. 

Despite the queasiness swirling around his midsection, Jason finds a small amount of comfort listening to Dick talk, watching Dick’s fingers drum on the steering wheel, smelling the last remnants of cologne on his skin. And when Dick stops talking, a comfortable silence follows. If it weren’t for that weird feeling, it might have been perfect. 

He can’t lose this. 

“Dick,” Jason says. 

“Mmm.” 

“I’m gonna stay in Gotham. For school.” 

Red light. Dick turns to him, looking very orange beneath the street lamps. “Wait,” he says. “You’re sure? You’re not just staying for me, are you?”

“No,” Jason replies. “I mean, yes, that’s part of it, but I should stay here anyway. Save on rent. Help my mom out.”

“Ah.” Dick nods, smiling kindly. “Can’t say I have any complaints. Bet your mom will like that too.” 

Jason looks out the passenger window, thinking about their conversation on Sunday.  _ You’re my baby, Jace. _ “Yeah,” he mumbles into the glass. 

Green light. The car lurches forward. “You alright?” 

“Yeah.” He clears his throat, sits up straight. “Thinking about school.” 

Dick laughs. “I swear, it’s not nearly as scary as they make it out to be. You study what you want, eat mediocre cafeteria food, buy GU merch…It’s not all suffering and parties, you know.” 

“That’s good.”

“I mean, there are some parties, if you’re interested.”

“I’m not.”

Dick nods in response, his eyes scanning the dark street as he turns into the parking lot. For a moment neither of them speak. The sounds of the night fill the car: dogs barking, lights buzzing, distant cars roaring down empty roads. 

Jason begins to fumble for his keys. 

“Not all parties are like that one a few months ago,” Dick says suddenly. 

Staring at the carpets, Jason squeezes his keys until the teeth bite into his palms. “Which one?” 

“The one where you—where I picked you up.”

Jason takes a long breath, relaxing his words before they even leave his lungs. “It was just kind of a shitty night,” he says. “That’s all.”

“You blacked out in my car.”

“A really shitty night.”

Dick shifts into park and cuts the engine. The sudden absence of white noise is stark. “You wanna talk about it?” he asks. 

Jason shrugs. “It’s stupid.” 

“Is it?” 

_ I don’t know,  _ he thinks, ignoring the tremor in his throat _ .  _ It seems stupid. It  _ should be  _ stupid. He should be over it by now. 

After taking another long, steady breath, Jason lets out a quiet laugh. “Look,” he says. “Grant wanted me to meet someone to get over Isabel. So I went. And I thought, maybe it would be easier if I drank a little. Like I could drink the gay away, you know?” 

Dick watches him, waiting. A softness lingers behind his eyes. 

Jason shrugs. “You saw me in the restaurant. I need a lot to be suave, okay?” 

“I’m not judging you,” Dick says quietly, but Jason hardly hears him. He’s started talking now, and the words won’t stop coming. 

“And there was this girl I thought I liked, and I ended up drinking more than I meant to because she kept giving me stuff. And then I started getting sick, and I kinda blacked out, and then she was—you know—and then I freaked out and left. So yeah, real  _ shitty _ night.” 

When he’s done speaking, he laughs again, if only to relieve some of the pressure built up in his core. But Dick isn’t laughing with him. 

“Jason,” he says quietly. His eyes are dark; his brow tense. “What did you say that girl was doing?” 

His knuckles tighten. The metal teeth of his keys threaten to pierce the skin of his palms. “Doesn’t matter. It was—it was a while ago. I was drunk.” 

“Did you want to have sex with her?” 

The question is so abrupt, so direct, that it takes Jason a moment to register it. When he does, he can only release a breathless laugh. His whole body is shaking now. “I don’t know. Maybe,” he replies. “Look. I didn’t know I was...ace, or whatever. And I was really out of it. I don’t remember.”

“You being ace has nothing to do with it,” Dick says, unbuckling his seatbelt so he can turn his whole body to face him. “This girl gave you alcohol, and then she—”

“It wasn’t like that,” Jason snaps. “I was drunk, and then I changed my mind.” 

“If you were  _ drunk  _ you couldn’t  _ consent!  _ Fuck!” Dick shakes his head slowly, running his hands through his hair. “Jay, I’m sorry, but that girl  _ assaulted  _ you.” 

The words hit him with enough force to press him into the seat, forcing the air from his lungs and freezing his thoughts in place. “That’s not true,” he stammers. 

Dick doubles over, hands still threaded through his hair. His eyes burn even as they fill with water. “Oh my god. I’m gonna kill her. I’m so sorry. I’m gonna kill her. Oh my  _ god.”  _

_ Please stop please stop please stop,  _ Jason thinks, squeezing his eyes shut to block out everything he can. It’s not true. It’s true. It’s  _ not. _

“Shit,” Dick mumbles. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be angry. I’m not angry at you—I couldn’t be—never—I promise. It’s just…  _ Fuck!”  _

There’s a sudden noise of a fist hitting the steering wheel. Jason jumps inside his skin but says nothing. He can’t. 

“All those times I touched you, I… Was I reminding you of her? Was I hurting you?” 

Quickly: “No.”

“Tell me the truth.”

_ “No,”  _ Jason says again. His heart is rapid and his head is spinning, and he’s tumbling through his thoughts, and every second it continues is another second he can’t breathe. “Dick, please.” 

“I don’t want to hurt you, Jason. I don’t—That wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault, and you didn’t deserve it. Tell me you know that.” 

Jason stares. He can feel his jaw tensing, his bottom lip quivering. Nausea. Regret. Faintness. Doubt.

“It wasn’t my fault,” he says at last. The words are sticky on his tongue. “And I didn’t deserve it.” 

Dick sighs deeply, leaning back against the seat. The wetness beneath his eyes refracts the yellow light of the lone bulb in the lot. “Do you know her name?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to tell me?”

“No.”

“Do you want to report her?”

“I want to forget about it,” Jason says. 

Dick is quiet for a moment. Another. Finally, he says, “I’m here for you. No matter what you decide.” 

Jason nods. “I know.”

“Can I do anything?” 

“I just want to sit here,” Jason replies. “Listen to music or something.” 

“What kind of music?” 

He can’t think right now. “You pick.” 

“Alright.”

The music that Dick chooses is quiet, but not melancholy. Indie, but familiar. It’s nice. Jason stares out the windshield, watching shadows flicker in front of backlit windows, feeling the rough texture of his jeans beneath his fingers. After the first song he finds Dick’s hand and presses their palms together. 

“How was your day?” he asks. 

Dick licks his lips. “It was pretty good,” he replies. “I turned in my final paper, and then I went out to dinner with my boyfriend.” 

“Sounds fun.”

“Yeah.”

“I think tomorrow will be better,” Jason says. 

“Me too,” Dick replies. 

And Jason hopes to god that they’re right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *insert witty comment here*


	22. Something Normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god. The chapter count has been updated. Let's see if this sticks.
> 
> Mind the chapter warnings. 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** underage drinking, discussions of abuse, references to non-con, drug use

Jason thinks for a long time. Weighs out the facts in his mind, sorts through the fears and realities until he knows what to do. And even then, he stares at his cell phone for far too long, wondering if it's the right thing, feeling the heaviness of relationships in the palm of his hand. 

He can’t stop thinking. As he draws his thumb over the dark surface of his screen, he writes a script, discards it, starts over.

_ Dick, we need to talk. _

No. Too ominous. The last thing Jason wants is to make Dick think that something’s wrong, especially after—

Maybe it doesn’t matter what Jason tells him. For the past two days Dick has been vacillating between too close and too distant, as if he can’t decide if it’s his words or his absence that will shatter Jason. He’ll go hours without replying to him, only to follow his silence with an inundation of warmth. _ I can’t stop thinking about you, _ and _ you deserve the world, _ and _ I think you’re amazing, _and then nothing. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, burying his head in his hands. It would be easier if he just disappeared. Just, poof! And he’s gone. No one would have to deal with him anymore. Not Dick, not his mom, not Lucas, no one. 

Question: How do you say something you really don’t want to say?

Answer: You can’t. 

Taking a long, uneven breath, Jason looks once more at his phone, lying face-up on his bedspread. When he picks it up, the dark mirror of the screen reflects his image. God. Dark circles; messy hair; pale, unwashed skin. He looks like someone who is afraid of sleep. He looks like he’s forgotten how to smile. He looks like a drug addict.

For a moment all he does is stare. It’s hard to tell if he looks like he should, or if he looks like everyone _ thinks _ he should. Jason is used to his life; for as long as he could remember he’s accepted that things are the way they are. They have no money. His dad is in prison. His mom is an addict. Her dealer likes to hurt him. He drinks when he doesn’t know what to do. One time, when he was smashed, a girl got him alone and had sex with him. 

His stomach twists when he thinks about what Dick said. _ It wasn’t your fault, and you didn’t deserve it. _

Jason decides to stop thinking. Just let things take him where he needs to go. And right now he needs to go to the fridge and grab anything that will take the edge off. 

He’s pouring his second rum and coke when he hears the tell-tale click of a door opening. Shoving the bottle under the sink, Jason turns around quickly, his heart leaping into his throat. A bit of liquid sloshes over the edge of the glass. It drips down his fingers, cool and thin and quick. 

Tommy.

“You’re still here?” the man grunts, not even bothering to look at him. 

Jason pulls his lips tight and says nothing. He takes a sip from his glass, feels the familiar afterburn of rum on his tongue. Maybe it will be easier once he’s tanked. 

“If I were your mommy, I’d have kicked you out the second you turned eighteen,” Tommy continues, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. A click of the lighter, and the room grays with smoke. “No one wants a _ queer _ like you hanging around.” 

“Right,” Jason replies. It doesn’t hurt him like he expects it to. His head is empty. 

“Whatever. Where’s your mother?”

“Somewhere.”

“What the shit does that mean?” 

Jason shrugs and takes another sip. He keeps his eyes straight forward, refusing to look in the direction of his mom’s room.

The sound of Tommy’s boots crossing the floor makes a thunderstorm seem quiet by comparison. He stops a mere foot away from Jason, lip curling in disgust as he stares down at him. 

“Where’d your mother go, you little cocksucker?” Tommy asks. Smoke falls from his lips as he speaks, gathering in Jason’s hair. 

He resists the urge to squint, to cough. “Why don’t you ask her?” 

“Do you think I’d be here if she answered her fucking phone?” 

_ Parasite, _Jason thinks. “I have a feeling you’d be here no matter what,” he snaps. “What do you want, Tommy?” 

“She’s got something of mine_ .” _His grin reveals too many of his teeth. “Said she’d pick it up from a friend in Robinson Park long as she could sample some.” 

“Don’t you bring her into your bullshit!”

The man shrugs, taking a long drag. “She wanted in.”

“You’re lying,” Jason says, laughing only because he doesn’t know what else to do. “She’s too smart to do crap like that.” 

“It was high quality shit, you know. Grade A smack. Cheaper to do me a favor than buy an ounce.”

“I don’t care. Leave her out of your business.”

Tommy wags his cigarette. “If you weren’t such a useless piece of shit, I’d give you the same offer. I mean, it’s not like you’ve never stuck something up your ass before.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Wow.” He releases a short, cruel laugh. “Some son you are. Turning down a good opportunity like that. No wonder she wanted the good stuff.”

“Fuck you,” Jason says again. 

“And such shit manners too. Jesus. You’re the whole package, aren’t you?” 

Heat floods Jason’s face. “Get out,” he hisses. 

Tommy takes another step forward. Jason instinctively moves away, only to find the cool surface of the counter digging into his lower spine. _ Coward, _ his mind screams. _ Victim. Pussy. _

He squeezes the glass until the blood drains from his knuckles. “Get out and _ back off,” _ he growls.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Tommy replies, smirking as he dangles his cigarette in Jason’s face. “You bring me the dope, and I don’t put this out on your tongue.”

“No.”

Tommy looks as surprised as Jason feels. He’s not sure where that came from—it’s not like he’s _ drunk, _ what with hardly more than an ounce in his system—and now that it’s hanging between them he doesn’t know what to think. Part of him wants to snatch it out of the air and pretend it had never left his mouth. And then another part, a greater part, wants to let it stay out in the open. Let something happen. Anything. He’s just so _ numb. _

Then Tommy recovers, his face tightening into his usual grimace. “What?” he asks.

“No,” Jason says again, more confidently this time. “Go on. Burn me. Hit me.”

A fresh cloud of smoke erupts in his face, stinging his eyes and filling his mouth with the sour taste of cigarettes. Nothing. He should be scared. He should be angry. But he’s not. Even when he imagines the hot tip pressing against his inner arm, even when he sees Tommy’s free hand clench in anger, he doesn’t care in the slightest. 

And his lack of feeling unsettles him. 

“Feeling tough today?” Tommy laughs. “Shit. Baby boy’s all grown up now, huh?”

His mouth is leather-dry. When he looks down, he sees a constellation of old scars inside the crook of his elbow, worn and silver against the light shade of his skin. “I was doing something,” he says flatly, slamming the drink down on the counter before he pushes Tommy aside. “My mom will be back soon. Talk to her then.” 

A meaty hand wraps around his bicep. “I’m talking to you now, you little freak!” Tommy hisses, his breath hot in Jason’s ear. 

“Let go of me.” 

“You want me gone? That’s not your decision. She’s got what’s rightfully _ mine.” _

Jason rips his arm from Tommy’s grasp. He can tell without looking that the skin will bruise, leaving the imprint of fingers long after they are gone. _ Don’t look at Tommy, don’t talk to Tommy, do what Tommy says. _

“Jase?”

He whips around, reeling with the sudden quickness of his pulse. _ Mom. _She’s standing in the doorway of her room, blinking slowly as she first at Jason, and then at Tommy. It looks like she’s swimming in her oversized clothes.

“What’s going on?” she asks. 

“Your boy and I were having a little _ chat,” _Tommy says. His hand falls to Jason’s shoulder, squeezing until the muscle begins to scream. “Some kid you’ve got here.” 

She hums. “Jason?” 

“Mom, I—” He slips out of Tommy’s grasp, making the distinct effort not to rub his shoulder. They’re both looking at him now: his mom with her unfocused gaze and Tommy with his cruel, daring smirk. And Jason’s shoulder is hurting, and he is starting to feel the haze of alcohol slipping over him, and Tommy’s cigarette is far too close to his skin, and there are too many scars on him already, and they look like the tracks on his mom’s arms, and he looks like an addict, and—

This is his life. This is his _ normal. _

“Catherine,” Tommy says, his voice sickly sweet, “be a doll and get that little package you got, ‘kay?” 

Her mouth opens with an _ oh. _Then, she laughs softly. “Oh right,” she says. “One moment.”

“Don’t,” Jason says, watching her rummage through a mess on top of her dresser. 

And Tommy’s hand is on the back of his neck, placing just enough pressure to make him freeze. A threat. “Now now, _ Jasey,” _he says. “I’m just asking for what belongs to me.” 

His mom returns, carrying a paper bag that she hands off to Tommy. “It’s fine, Jase. Tommy’s just helping me out. Just do what he says, okay?” 

_ This _ is his _ normal. _

“I—I have to go,” he mutters. 

At least no one tries to follow him into his room. As he puts on his shoes and shoves his phone in his pocket—without looking—he can hear them talking. Words like _ deal _ and _ tomorrow night _ and _ no big deal _float through his open door, stirring his gut until he thinks he thinks the earth might swallow him whole. 

But it doesn’t. 

On the bus, Jason pulls out his phone, takes a deep breath, and calls Dick. The world is racing past the window, blurring into a collage of grey and brown and brick. He stares into it without seeing anything. 

“Are you at your apartment?” he asks, when he hears Dick’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Yeah? What’s up?”

Licking his lips, Jason sinks into his seat. “Can I drop by?”

“Is something wrong?”

_ Yes. _“I just want to see you.” 

There is a pause. “Oh,” Dick says. “I guess I’ll see you in a bit, then?” 

Jason hangs up after a fumbled goodbye. For the next fifteen minutes he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t think. He only stares at the hard floor of the bus, listening to the hisses and roars of the mechanisms beneath his feet. And when he gets off, it’s more of the same: staring, listening, staring, listening, letting the fugue state carry him to Dick’s apartment.

“That was fast,” Dick says, ushering him in with a grin. 

“Yep.” Jason is able to muster up a half-smile in return. He pretends not to notice that Dick’s hands are stiff at his sides, clearly trapped in the indecision of _ to touch or not to touch. _

“Yep,” Dick echoes. When he looks at Jason, there’s a nearly imperceptible movement in his face, the briefest flash of something neither of them want to admit. “How are you?” 

Without thinking—because he _ can’t, _he really can’t—Jason steps forward and guides Dick’s mouth to his own. It’s a soft kiss, not quite chaste, not quite something more. Just the exchange of heat and emotion between two bodies. They’re hardly even moving. Jason’s hand is still cupping Dick’s cheek; Dick’s hands are resting gently on his biceps. 

When it’s over, Jason presses his forehead to Dick’s and breathes him in. Then he steps back and lets the cool air spill between them. 

Question: How do you say something you really don’t want to say?

Answer: You just say it. 

“I have something I need to tell you,” Jason says. 

Dick’s eyes flash with concern. “What?” 

No more standing. Taking a deep breath, Jason walks over to the couch and sits down, drawing his knees into his chest. “Shit,” he mutters. His jaw is locked tight. 

The couch sighs as Dick sits down next to him. “Jason?”

“I don’t—” _ Fuck, _it’s hard. It shouldn’t be this hard. “I’ve been keeping stuff from you. A lot.” 

Dick’s hands twist over each other as he sighs. “If this is about Wednesday—” 

“It’s not. I mean, it is, but it’s not. I don’t want to keep anything from you,” he says, staring at the ripped denim over his knees. “Not anymore. And I don’t want it to come as a surprise, either. So I’m just gonna say it, okay?” 

“Jay, it’s okay if you’re—”

“My life is shit.” 

There is a pause. He can feel Dick’s eyes on his face, can picture the wheels turning in his head. It’s almost funny, in a way. Like watching a kid take a test. 

_ Go on, _ Jason thinks. _ Deny it. Try to. _

Dick must know a little, because he’s _ smart _ and _ perceptive _and all that that implies. He met Jason’s mom. He’s been to their apartment. He’s seen Jason with bruises and cuts and a bloody nose. He must have figured something out by now.

Finally, Dick asks, “Is it your mom?”

Jason winces. “Kind of.”

“She isn’t sick, is she.”

“She is. It’s just—”

The rest is frozen on his tongue. Waiting. Waiting. _ Waiting. _ No matter how hard he tries, the words stay paralyzed. Just one more push. One more push. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jason rests his forehead on his knees. Dick’s words are swimming with his thoughts, and he can’t sort through anything, and if this goes on any longer he’s going to forget how to talk. 

When he feels Dick’s hand on his own, he jerks away. 

“Don’t,” he says. “Just—listen. Please. I just want to talk, okay? And I don’t want you to say anything.”

A moment. Dick nods.

Jason takes another deep breath, gulping down as much air as he can while he organizes the list. Mom first. Start with Mom. 

“My mom’s an addict,” he says. “And yeah, you probably knew that, because you’re smart and you’ve seen her, and you’ve seen me. It’s fucked up. It’s so fucked up, and it’s been fucked up for years, and I can’t do anything about it. And every day I wake up and ask myself, am I gonna end up like her?” 

Stopping to take a breath, he stares at the lines in his palms, too afraid to look at Dick. 

“And her…her dealer, he—” His voice gives out, so he swallows and tries again. “He takes advantage of her. Of us. And I tried to ignore it, but it kept getting worse and worse, and I’m afraid if I snap he’ll hurt her. I can take it, really. It’s not that bad. But I don’t think—don’t _ look _at me like that,” he snaps, seeing the softness in Dick’s eyes. 

“I’m not a fucking _ victim, _ okay? This is my life. This is my _ normal. _ It has been for as long as I can remember. Dad’s in prison. Mom’s high. Tommy comes over and knocks me around. Then I go off to work so that I can keep us off the streets, because we are this _ fucking _ close—” Jason clenches his fists at his sides, trying to keep from erupting. “— _ this _ close to getting evicted. And sometimes I think she doesn’t even know that. Sometimes I think she doesn’t know anything, and I don’t _ care _if that makes me a bad son. I just want… I just want… I don’t know.” 

His face is wet. When did he start crying? It doesn’t _ feel _like he should be crying. His whole body is tense and hot, nearly shaking. He can’t see anything. And Dick still hasn’t said anything. 

“I get drunk,” Jason mutters into his knees. “A lot. And I wish I didn’t. But sometimes I feel like it’s the only thing that gets me through all the bullshit. Except every time I look at myself, I see me turning into my parents. A fucking addict or a fucking felon. Take your goddamn pick.” 

A moment passes. Jason doesn’t want to look at Dick, _ can’t _look at Dick. Deep inside his gut, he can feel dread festering, drowning out all the things that make him work. Because he knows what he has to say next, and somehow—after all of that—this is the thing that hurts the most. He’s been falling, and now it’s time for him to hit the bottom. 

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to my life,” Jason says without looking. “It’s like, for the first time, I’ve been making decisions for _ me. _ And I _ want _ to be happy with you, and I _ want _ to be proud of what I am. Really. I do. But it’s just _ so fucking hard _. And—and—” 

_ Say it. Say it. Say it. _

Half a minute passes before Dick sighs and folds over, resting his head on his knuckles. From the corner of his vision, Jason can see the tremble in his limbs, the soft curl of his lip pulling away from his teeth. _ Right, _ he thinks. _ Of course. _

Dick’s voice, when it comes out, is smooth but curt. 

“Thank you for telling me.”

“I had to,” Jason tells him, but he isn’t listening. 

“You’re right. I knew. Not all, but I recognize things when I see them. I guess I didn’t know if I wanted you to tell me or if I was hoping I was wrong.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be _ sorry. _ God, Jay. Don’t apologize for this.” 

When Dick reaches for him, Jason shirks away from his touch. “No. You don’t understand. I’m not sorry for my life. I’m sorry because…because…”

“Because what?”

“Because you don’t deserve that,” Jason finishes. “I’m a real asshole, Dick. A liar. A goddamn teenage _ alcoholic. _ Just a tragedy waiting to happen. _ ” _

“Don’t say that,” Dick snaps. His voice cuts the air between them, sharp enough to sting. “Don’t. Just don’t.” 

“Why not?” He laughs softly, bitterly. “You know, I found out that my mom’s started working for her dealer. And I just _ stood _ there. Like I didn’t even care. All I could do was think, this is _ normal. _She’s doing illegal shit, and it’s my normal. Do you know how fucked up that is?” 

“So that’s your normal. But that doesn’t mean it _ should _be!” Dick says. His fingers curl around the edge of the sofa, squeezing. “Fuck. Jason, you know that. I can tell that you know that. So how can I help you change that?” 

Jason shakes his head. “I don’t know, I don’t—” 

“There is a man coming into your apartment and _ hurting _ you! Are you just going to live with it?”

“No! Fuck!” Jason buries his face in his arms, resisting the urge to scream. “I just—you’re right. I don’t want this to be my normal anymore.” 

A moment passes. This time, when Dick’s hand falls on Jason’s arm, it stays there. His thumb brushes over the skin, pausing over a small round scar: an old cigarette burn. Jason stares at the place where they meet, wishing he could fall into the touch and forget the world. 

Tired. He’s just so _ tired. _

“I’m sorry. God, I’m so fucking sorry,” Dick replies. “I’m trying to _ help _you, Jason. Please. Let me help you.” 

“I just want it to be over.”

“I know,” he says, squeezing Jason’s arm. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jason.” 

“But it—” _ Say it, god damn it. _“—it’s also not fair to make you deal with all my shit.” 

Dick squeezes Jason’s arm. “Nobody can _ make _me do anything.” 

“You’re a good person, Dick.”

“I’m no—” 

“You’re such a good person that you probably think you’re a bad person, even though you’d hurt yourself trying to fix the people you care about. And my baggage isn’t something you want to sort through.” 

Dick pauses, mouth twisting. “So I’m just supposed to watch you suffer?” he asks. 

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

Jason doesn’t know how to answer, so he doesn’t. 

Dick swears. “Look,” he says. “I’m not gonna sit here and pretend that this isn’t the third bombshell you’ve dropped on me. It’s a lot. I’ll admit that. Fuck, I mean, it makes me wonder if—” He stops suddenly, shaking his head. “It’s a lot.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize.”

“Okay.” 

“Just—why didn’t you tell anyone?” Dick asks, and Jason feels something inside him begin to splinter. 

“I didn’t think I could tell anyone,” he mutters. 

“Why not?”

_ Because I thought they’d judge me. Because I thought it would hurt. Because I thought I would fall apart. Because of— _

“Because of my mom.”

“Shit.” Dick lets out a deep sigh, looking like he doesn’t know whether to cry or burst. “Jason, I know this is hard to hear. But maybe you—”

“She’s _sick,” _Jason snaps, feeling sparks flare inside him. “It’s not her fault. I can’t just leave her.”

“I’m not saying that. But if it’s hurting you to take care of her—” 

“She loves me. I know she loves me.” 

Dick pauses for a moment, chewing his lower lip. He doesn’t need to say anything. Jason knows what’s going through his head, because it’s gone through his a hundred times, a thousand times. And he _ hates _it. 

Swearing, he runs his hands through his hair to give them something to do that isn’t violent. This doesn’t help. Now all he can think about is scratching himself open, feeling hot blood drip down his scalp. “She’s not like that,” he says. “She doesn’t realize what she’s doing, okay? I have to take care of her. She’ll lose it if I’m not there. She’ll _ lose it!” _

Dick’s hand falls from his arm as his eyes darken. “Does your mom rely on you to help her with rent?” 

“What’s your point?” Jason says sharply. “I live there too.” 

“And does she know what...Tommy is doing to you?” 

“Yes, but—”

“Jesus, Jason!” Dick stands, shaking his head as he talks a few steps away. “Do you not _ hear _ yourself? Your mom is making you work so she can buy drugs from a man she _ knows _ is _ hurting you!” _

Jason flies to his feet. “It’s not like that!” he snarls. 

“Really? Because it seems that way to me!” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Dick’s face softens, just for a moment. “I know it’s hard,” he says. “I _ know _it is. I saw what happened with Dami’s mom.”

“This is different,” Jason snaps. 

“You’re right. It’s worse.” 

“Fuck you.” 

Dick laughs. “Yeah, _ fuck me _ amiright? I’ll just stand here and watch my _ boyfriend _get beaten up by his mom’s drug dealer!” 

“Well maybe your _ boyfriend _ knows more than you do about his own goddamn life!” Jason shouts back. “Maybe your _ boyfriend _ doesn’t want to watch his _ boyfriend _ work himself crazy trying to fix things that he’s too goddamn _ rich _ to understand!” 

“Then why even tell me?” Dick demands. “Why bring me into all this if you weren’t going to let me help you?” 

Jason’s face boils. “I thought—”

“You thought I’d just tell you that _ it’s okay _ and _ it’s not your fault _ again _ ,” _ Dick finishes, mouth tight with frustration. _ “ _Well, you’re half-right. It’s not your fault. But it’s not okay. Not this time.” 

Silence. Jason stares at Dick, wanting to tell him that he’s wrong, wanting to say the things he’s been telling himself again and again for years. But he can’t. Not this time. 

“This was a mistake,” Jason says at last. 

“Don’t say that.” 

“Why not? It’s true.” He takes a deep breath, trying to quell the heat inside him, the sting of shame. No more yelling. No need to make it even worse. “I’m gonna go now, and you’re not gonna try to save me.” 

“Jason—”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” he mutters, and leaves without another word. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... will a [cat video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1RTiaTGuKnM) make you feel better?


	23. Almost Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks. Chapter count is staying as it is. This is the second-to-last major chapter of this fic. Can you believe it? I sure can't. 
> 
> Warnings (and there are a lot, whoops) contain mild spoilers, so they are going at the end of the chapter. Click the link below to see them. 
> 
> For your safety while reading, please keep your hands, arms, and legs inside the vehicle at all times.

Friday night, Jason doesn’t sleep much. He doesn’t sleep at all. But somehow he still wakes up on his bedroom floor, head pounding and face carrying the imprint of the carpet. The light coming through his window tells him that it’s late, well after noon. Just beyond his outstretched fingers lies his phone. Unplugged. Almost out of battery. 

His first thought is, _ Dick is still wrong. _

And for a long time, he doesn’t move. Maybe a few minutes. Maybe an hour. Only when his limbs ache and hunger is a black hole inside him does he finally decide to get up. 

Groaning, he pushes himself into a sitting position and pulls his phone into his lap. There are a few unread messages and three missed calls from Dick. His empty stomach twists itself into a knot. Right. Of course Dick is still concerned, still self-righteous about the things he doesn’t really understand.

Jason scrolls through the texts absent-mindedly, ignoring his stiff fingers, ignoring the voicemails Dick left over the course of the night. They probably say the same things as the texts, anyway: _ I’m sorry I got angry with you. It’s not your fault. Can we talk about this? I’m worried about you. Please tell me you’re not drinking right now. _As if any part of Jason’s life is his business. 

He almost deletes them, but at the last second the guilt wells up inside him and he leaves them be. 

Dick is wrong. He’s still wrong. 

There’s one more text from Lucas, which Jason reads while rubbing the pattern of the carpet from his cheeks. _ Boss man finally got back to me. Welcome to the full-time club, kid. I’ll be in the area later today to drop off the paperwork and shit. _

Jason lets out a long sigh, trying to dispel the itch that spreads across his skin. A job is good. Lucas is good. These are good things. 

_ Come on, _ he urges himself. _ Be happy. Be happy. Please. _

Nothing changes, except now he also wants to throw up. Just purge himself of everything: pain, emotion, hopes, desires. Then he could just sit on his floor and watch the shadows stretch until they take over and he can sleep again. Dick can move on, like he deserves. Lucas can find a better employee. His mom can—

His mom.

The water is running in the bathroom. Through the thin walls Jason can hear it gurgling down the pipes, falling beneath the floor and into nowhere. It turns off with a high-pitched squeak. The bathroom cupboard slams. 

_ If it’s hurting you to take care of her… _

Gritting his teeth, he stands, dusting off his shirt and pants. They’re the same ones he wore yesterday. He must have forgotten to change them. Other things on the mind, and all that. Like trying not to cry, and trying not to drink, and drinking a little bit, and hating himself, and punching the wall until he can’t feel his knuckles anymore. 

He looks down. There’s a crust of blood over parts of his hands, flaking off every time he flexes. Huh. So that’s why his fingers were so stiff. 

As he washes them off in the kitchen sink, he can’t stop thinking about the things Dick said. Hell. Who is he kidding? They’ve been the only words running through his head since he stormed out of Dick’s apartment. It’s a loop he can’t pull himself out of.

_ She loves me. It’s not okay. Not this time. It’s fine. She loves me. She _ loves _ me. _

And Jason can prove it. He _ has _to prove it. Then Dick will see, and it will all be better. No more fighting.

It takes him too long to dry his hands, wringing the towel around his torn knuckles until they threaten to bleed again. He can hear his mom in the bathroom, opening and closing the cupboard while she plays grainy music on her phone. 

The towel goes back on the rack. Now his mouth is dry too. 

_ She loves me, _he thinks, taking a step toward the bathroom. Another. 

_ It’s not okay. _

_ Not this time. _

_ It’s fine. _

_ She loves me. _

_ She _ loves _ me. _

“Mom?” he asks. A sharp pain shoots up his hands when he raps his knuckles against the bathroom door. It barely registers over the rush of blood in his ears; the tremble spreading throughout his core. 

“Hmmm?” 

“Can I…” He swallows, then tries again. “Can I talk to you?”

The door opens. She’s wearing jeans and a tank top, looking more done-up than usual. Her lips are salmon-colored and there’s a color to her cheeks that Jason hasn’t seen in years. It’s almost enough to make him miss the empty glass on the counter, the smell of liquor and cigarettes coming from her skin. 

She looks at him for too long before recognition flashes over her face. “Oh,” she says, turning back to the mirror to draw on another layer of lipstick. “You look tired.”

He is. So goddamn tired. 

“Mom,” he says. 

“What?” 

“Can we talk?”

She dabs at the corner of her mouth with her pinky nail. “Come on, Jasey. We’re talking.”

“No, I mean—” Swallowing again. Suddenly saliva is pooling around his tongue, and his throat is quivering the way it always does when he can’t ignore the nausea. “I mean, can we sit down and talk?”

“Why?” his mom asks. 

“Because it’s…it’s important.” 

Sighing deeply, she fixes her eyes on him. “Quick, okay?” she says, giving him an almost-smile. A pity smile. “I have to be somewhere soon.” 

_ Where? _Jason tries to ask, but he can’t. He can’t do anything but follow her, squeezing his fists until his nails dig into the soft flesh of his palms. 

_ She loves me. I know she loves me. _

“Okay,” his mom sighs, sitting down on the couch and patting the seat next to her. Jason nearly collapses. “What is it, Jasey?”

Big breath in. He opens his mouth, chokes, then closes it again. 

“Is this about college again?” she asks, placing a hand on his arm. Squeezing. “I told you, it’s okay if you’re not ready. You don’t need college. You’re my baby boy.”

“It’s not that.” God. Every word is a battle. 

Squeezing. “Then what is it?”

“I…” 

_ She loves me. I know she loves me. _

_ But what if she doesn’t? _

“Jasey?”

It rips from his throat and leaves him raw. “I like boys.”

A pause. In the silence, he feels the wound spread throughout his body. _ Say you love me, _ he thinks. Begs. _ Say you love me. Please. _

His mom’s hand falls from his arm, taking his everything with it. “Oh,” she says, blinking slowly like she always does before slipping under. “Are you sure?”

He draws his knees into his chest and nods. “Yeah,” he replies. Barely even a whisper.

“But how can you _ know? _Did something happen?” Her eyes go wide. “What happened to you?” 

Another nod. The room blurs around him. “I have a boyfriend,” he says, choking again. “I mean, I don’t—I don’t know if he wants to be, anymore. But I know. I just know. And I think I’ve known for a long time, even if I didn’t _ know.” _

“Oh,” she says again. Her lips are tight; her whole _ face _is tight. “I guess… Well. Tommy said he thought you were gay.”

Jason’s stomach lurches at the mention of Tommy’s name. “I’m not gay. He’s wrong.”

When her smile returns, it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Of course you’re not, baby,” she replies, rubbing his arm again. “You’re confused. Don’t you see? This is why I can’t let you leave.” 

_ She loves me. _“I’m not confused,” he says. “Mom, I’m just—” 

“You had a girlfriend, didn’t you? How can you be gay if you had a girlfriend?” 

“I’m not _ gay, _I just—”

“Then what is it?” she snaps, but her face quickly softens. “Honey. Jasey. Be honest with me. Please. Did something happen that made you think you were gay?”

Jason begins to crack. It’s as if the weight of all the things he hasn’t told her has rushed into his core, knocking him off-balance. _ Rainbow Youth. Tommy. Grant. The party. Dawn. The hospital. Bruises. Harper. Kyle. College. Money. Dick. _ And he can’t breathe, and he can’t breathe, and for a moment he thinks, _ Dick was right, _ but then the thought goes away and he knows that Dick is _ still _ wrong. His mom still loves him. She has to. She _ has _to, because if she doesn’t then he’ll have no one left. 

“I’m not gay,” he says slowly, deliberately. Trying not to fall apart. “I don’t...I don’t really want to call myself anything. I like girls and boys. And I’m…” Another big breath. _ She deserves to know. She’s my mom. She loves me. _“…and I’m pretty sure I’m asexual, or at least something like that. That’s who I am, Mom. Who I’ve always been.” 

_ Don’t you care? _ he thinks, when he runs out of words. _ Don’t you want me to be okay? _

But his mom just _ sits _there, staring at him like he’s a broken bird. After a moment, she lets out a soft breath. “You’re not asexual,” she replies, reaching out to cup his cheek in her hand. Her touch is dry and burning. “Don’t call yourself that. You’re my handsome boy. I’m sure the girls are all over you.” 

He flinches. “That’s not what that means.” 

“Honey. What else could it mean?” 

“It means I’m just not—” Why is it so hard? Why can’t he be proud like everyone else? “—it means I’m not attracted to people in...that way. That’s all.”

The couch sighs as she stands. “This is my fault,” she says.

“What?” 

“I must have done something. What did I do, Jason?” 

“Nothing, Mom. Nothing.”

“You’re inventing problems,” she says, walking toward her bedroom. Jason follows even though his legs are made of jelly. “I mean, it would be one thing if you were gay, but… Why can’t you just say you’re gay?” 

God damn it. Tears again. Jason shakes his head, trying to wipe his eyes on his sleeve before she notices. “Because I’m not.” 

His mom starts fumbling through her dresser, pushing aside shirts and socks as she looks for something he can’t see. “Just say you’re gay, Jasey. It’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with that.” 

“I’m asexual.”

_ “No one _ is like that. That’s just not _ normal.” _

His voice finally breaks as he says, “That’s not true.”

“God damn it.” Finally, she pulls an orange bottle out of her top drawer and struggles to pull it open. “I’m sorry. It’s just—god _ damn _it.” 

“Mom,” Jason says. “Please don’t.” 

Too late. She tugs off the cap and shakes two pills into her hand. Swallows them dry. “I can’t,” she mutters. “I just _ can’t _right now. It’s too much. I don’t want to think about you hurting yourself like this.”

_ She loves me. _“I’m not hurting myself.”

“I’ll take you to the doctor. That’s what I’ll do. Doctor. Tomorrow.” 

“I’m not sick. Mom, you have to—”

“They’ll help you sort this out. You’ll be okay.” 

He shakes his head. _ I’m fine, _he says, or tries to say. Nothing comes out. Not even air. 

His mom sighs loudly, rubbing her temple with long, painted fingers. “Just _ look _at you,” she says, gesturing. “Something is wrong with you. You look sick, you can barely talk… What the hell is going on, Jase?” 

For the millionth time, Dick’s voice rings in his head. _ Your mom is making you work so she can buy drugs from a man she _ knows _ is _ hurting _ you! _

She continues, tossing the pill container into a dark corner. “Are you mad at me? Is this why you’re doing this?” 

“I’m not mad—”

“Then why would you tell me? You knew I had to be somewhere. I mean, god damn it, Jason.” Gesturing to herself, she adds, “I can’t get all messed up right now! Why tell me this shit when you knew that?” 

“Because—”

“Because what?” 

His voice is small. _ He’s _ small. Any second now, the room is going to swallow him whole. “Because I wanted to tell you,” he whispers, choking back tears. _ She loves me. _ “I thought you would want to know.”

“How could _ you _ know what I want?” she asks. “Jesus Christ, Jason. When was the last time you really thought about someone other than yourself?” 

The words pierce him like shards of glass. Jason blinks, searching for something to say but coming up empty. 

Sighing, his mom grabs her purse from the floor and slings it over her shoulder. “Your whole life, there’s always been something,” she says. “Why can’t you be normal?”

Finally, words: “I am normal.” 

“No, Jasey. You’re not. Getting into fights, calling yourself _ whatever, _ pretending to be something you’re not…Shit. You can’t even take care of yourself!” 

“That’s not true,” he says quickly. “Come on. You know that’s not true.”

“We’ll talk about this later. I have to go.”

“Where?” 

“Out. Just a quick job. _ Move, _Jason.”

He doesn’t. Even if he wanted to, he knows he’ll crumble after a single step. “A job,” he repeats. “For Tommy?”

Her face tells him everything he needs to know. 

“Mom,” he begins.

“It’s just a quick job. Nothing to worry about. I’ll be back tonight.” 

Now his own words come rushing back into his head. _ I don’t want this to be my normal anymore. _

“You know it’s illegal, right?” Jason asks. “What he’s asking you to do?”

His mom pushes past him, her lips pulled tight. “It’s no big deal. I’ll be back tonight.”

“I don’t want you to go. You’re gonna get hurt.”

“There you go again, talking about what _ you _want,” she says sharply, but her face quickly loses its edge. “It’s gonna be okay, Jason. We’re gonna get you some help, and then you’ll be normal again, hmm?” 

He flinches when she reaches out to brush her fingers against his face. “I _ am _okay,” he mutters. Something tells him that they both know it’s a lie. 

_ She loves me. _

Her fingers fall from his cheek. The movement is slow, almost stilted, like they always are when the pills start to hit. “I just can’t deal with this right now,” she says. “You understand, don’t you, honey?”

A moment passes before he works up the energy to nod. 

“Good.” Adjusting the strap of her purse, she turns around and starts toward the door. Jason watches, trapped in place by all the things he wants to say, but can’t. And the words are biting at the tip of his tongue, and she’s walking away, and the _ him _inside of himself is fading, and her fingers are on the door handle, and—

“Mom?” he asks. 

She stops. “Yeah?”

Silence fills the space between him. Jason remains still, chewing his lip, fighting the urge to break down. _ Please. Please don’t say no. _

Quietly, he asks, “Do you still love me?” 

His mom’s smile is small and doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’ll always be my baby boy,” she says, pulling the door open. “We’ll talk more when I get back, okay?” 

“O-okay,” Jason whispers, but the door is already closing behind her. It clicks shut, and the apartment is so silent that it crushes him. 

Can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. He can only stand in an empty apartment, feeling cool air wash over his raw knuckles while his insides slowly disintegrate. Waiting for the world to implode. 

_ Just a tragedy waiting to happen. _

By the time he makes it back to his room, his cheeks are sticky and he can hardly see anymore. Tight chest. Short, gasping breaths. Throbbing head and shaking arms. Jason fumbles blindly around for his phone, choking on sobs and the sudden barrage of thoughts in his brain. 

Dialing. Waiting. 

The sound of Dick’s voice drives the clouds from his mind. 

“Jason? Are you—”

“I think you were right,” Jason whispers, wiping his face on his sleeve. His legs give out; he collapses onto his bed. The hot tears on his face roll slowly toward his cheekbones. “Dick I’m—I’m so fucking sorry. You were right._ God.” _

A moment. Jason bites back another sob. 

“Are you hurt?” Dick asks. “Do I need—”

“No. I’m just…” _ Tired. Sick. Lonely. Broken. Wrong. _ “I’m just so stupid. A stupid _ asshole. _ I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry.”

“I’m coming over.”

“Don’t,” Jason says quickly, wiping his eyes again. “Please.”

On the other end of the line, Dick pauses. “What happened?” he asks, after a moment. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“I really think I should come over.”

Jason shakes his head, staring up into his ceiling. His body is so heavy that even the smallest moment drains him. “Please don’t,” he says again. “I don’t—I need a moment. Please.”

“Please just tell me what’s going on!”

“I’m sorry,” Jason says softly, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t. Not right now. Later. Please. I’m so, so sorry.” 

Another moment. He can hear Dick’s breaths, picture his blue eyes staring into nothing. 

“It’s almost three,” Dick says. “If you don’t call me by seven, I’m going to come over.” 

“Okay.” 

“Take care of yourself, okay? Don’t just—” 

His voice cuts off suddenly. Jason waits half a second for it to return, and when it does not, looks at his phone. 

The screen is dark. Dead. 

Jason tosses it aside, not bothering to plug it in. Then he stills. Stares at the ceiling. Feels his eyes dry and his shuddering breath even out. Cheeks sticky. Head pounding. 

_ Take care of yourself, _Dick had said. Jason has no idea where to even begin. What that would look like. Hell, maybe his mom was right. 

The thought drives a knife into his gut. So he just lies there, waiting to bleed out. 

***

Jason wakes with a splitting headache. In his room the light is orange; the shadows on his floor are long. When he looks at his phone for the time, he finds it just as dead as he left it. 

_ Right, _he thinks bitterly, slipping it into his pocket. His stomach clenches in hunger. Or maybe it’s not hunger at all. Maybe this is how it feels when he tries to pour himself out and finds he was already leaking. Either way, he forces himself off the bed, lingering at the edge while he gathers his balance. 

His legs are weak as they carry him across the floor. Jason breathes deeply, trying to fill the void in his gut. As he reaches for the door handle, he suddenly finds himself aching for Dick to be there with him: holding his hand, standing by his side, pressing the warmth of his body against Jason’s. The apartment is too cold when it’s just him inside. Too empty. Too quiet.

Not quiet. 

The television is playing when he walks out. His mom’s auburn hair is draped over the side of the couch, still in the placid air of the room. There’s a can of beer on the floor beside her, knocked over and empty. Jason can almost taste the alcohol in the air. It’s a smell as familiar to him as the scent of his own skin. 

_ If it’s hurting you to take care of her… _

The space between them stretches endlessly: a void in its own right. Jason inhales, exhales, and steps cautiously forward, working up the right thing to say. 

One step closer. 

_ Maybe I’m wrong again. If I can get her help, then things will be better. _

Another step. 

_ Is it my job to help her? _

Another step. 

_ She doesn’t know what she’s done. What she’s said. It’s not her fault. _

There’s only a few feet between them now, and from this angle Jason sees her closed eyes, her slack jaw. A part of him softens in relief—it doesn’t have to happen, not now—but then he hears shuffling behind him and every muscle in his body locks tight. 

_ No no no no. Not right now. Please. _

Maybe he should have known better than to hope. 

“Oh look,” Tommy says. He leans over the kitchen counter, downing the rest of a beer can. In front of him are small, scattered packages Jason can’t spare thoughts about. “You’re alive. I thought you would have hung yourself in the closet by now. Or out of the closet. Whatever the fucking phrase is.” 

It takes a second for the words to sink in, and another for Jason to realize the implications. How Tommy figured it out. Who must have told him. 

Without saying anything, Jason collects every piece of himself that he can. _ Leave. _ He has to leave before things get worse, and then Dick can help him deal with it later. They’ll be together then. Nothing left to worry about. 

He’s not even to his room before he’s stopped by the sound of Tommy’s voice.

“Or maybe you’ll slit your wrists,” he says, tossing the empty can towards the trash. “That’s a real faggy way to go.” 

“Did she let you in?” Jason nods at his mom. She’s still immobile on the couch. The longer he looks, the more something festers in his gut. 

“The buzzer’s broken. D’you know that? The building’s open all the time now.” Tommy grins. “You know, I wish I knew you liked sucking cock. For real. Could’ve made me a lot of money.” 

“Shut up,” Jason snaps, then clamps his mouth shut. _ Idiot. _He couldn’t just go silently, could he?

Tommy taps a finger on the counter. “Do you fuck him, or does he fuck you? Wait—don’t tell me. He fucks you.” 

_ Don’t say anything don’t say anything don’t— _

“Go to hell.” 

“I guess I’ll see you there, _ freak.” _ He shakes his head and tuts, feigning disappointment. “Your poor mother. Going on and on about what a fucking _ baby _you are. She could hardly wait to knock herself out.” 

Jason’s reply dies on his tongue as realization dawns on him. He can’t even ask the question; dread has already infested his system, spreading like a chill throughout his veins. The only things left of the world are his rising heartbeat, his trembling throat, and the limp lock of auburn hair across the room. 

The word rips from his throat. “Mom!” he cries out, running to her side. Tie-off around her arm. Needle on the floor. How did he miss this? _ How did he miss this? _“Mom, are you okay?” 

When he puts his hand to her forehead, he feels cold, clammy skin. 

_ No no no no no no. _

Heavy footsteps. “She’s fine,” Tommy says, standing over them. “Give her twenty minutes. _ God.” _

It’s as if he doesn’t even hear him. “Mom,” Jason says again. He shakes her shoulder, gently at first, before getting rougher. “Mom. _ Mom.” _

“She really wanted to get away, didn’t she? You really did it this time.” 

Jason doesn’t tear his eyes away from his mom. Her chest rises and falls slowly, almost invisibly, almost like she isn’t breathing at all. Not what a high is supposed to look like. Why does he know what a high is supposed to look like? What’s _ wrong _with them?

“Mom. You have to get up.” 

Her lips are blue. Her _ fingers _ are blue. And she still isn’t moving, and she’s hardly breathing, and there’s an empty needle and a lighter by his knees, and he’s shaking her, and all of a sudden he’s thirteen again and she’s on the bathroom floor and they’re all alone and she’s going to die and _ it’s going to be his fault. _

“She’s—she’s not breathing right,” Jason stammers, holding shaking fingers against her neck. If there is a pulse, he can’t feel it. His hands fall away. “Oh god. Oh god. She needs help.” 

Tommy doesn’t say anything. When Jason looks up, he sees the smallest amount of consternation flicker over the man’s face. “Fuck,” he says. “Where’s the baggie?”

A piece of plastic is sticking out from beneath her shoulder. Jason yanks it out and stares at it. Empty. 

“Fuck,” Tommy says again, snatching the bag from his hands. “The whole thing? Shit was fucking _ pure!” _

“Needs help,” Jason mutters, voice wet and broken with emotion. His heart is so high in his chest he can feel it in his mouth. Fingers numb. Knees weak. It takes him too long to find his phone in his pocket—wasting time, wasting time—and then he sees the blank screen and everything stops.

Dead.

“No,” he mutters, dropping it to pat his mom’s pockets. Nothing. “No no no. Fuck. _ Fuck!” _

“Jesus. Keep your fucking voice down,” Tommy hisses. 

“Where’s her phone? Where’s her goddamn phone?”

“How the hell would I know?”

“Fuck!” Jason runs his fingers through his hair, gasping for air but never finding any. His eyes find Tommy, still standing over his mom. “Tommy. Please. I know that—I mean—we need to call someone. _ Please.” _

For far too long Tommy says nothing. He looks at both of them in turn, then at something Jason cannot see, and his heavy brow falls into a scowl. 

“She’ll be fine,” he says.

Something sparks in Jason’s chest. “Fine?” he snarls. _ “Fine?” _

Tommy jabs a finger toward the kitchen. “No one gets in here,” he growls. “They see my shit, we’re all done.” 

“Give me your phone.” Jason makes a move toward Tommy’s pocket, only to be shoved away. “Give me your fucking phone!” 

“Don’t touch me, you fucking freak,” Tommy hisses, lip curling into a sneer. 

“She’s going to die!”

“Yeah? And I’m not going to jail because of some whore and her faggot son.”

Everything goes red. Snarling, Jason launches himself at Tommy, catching him around the waist and with enough force to send them both tumbling to the floor. His teeth knock against Tommy’s elbow. Pain radiates through his head. 

_ Don’t stop can’t stop fuck you fuck you— _

He slams his fist into Tommy’s jaw. “Fuck you!” he snarls, throwing another punch. Tommy’s hand catches hit, twists his arm. 

Pain. White. Jason cries out. 

Tommy’s free hand catches Jason’s shoulder, shoving him down. “Son of a bitch!” he hisses. “You think you’re tough?” 

Jason yanks his arm free and dodges a fist. Hisses between his teeth as the knuckles graze his jaw. Scrambles back. The carpet burns his palms. 

“You really think this would work?” Tommy growls. He throws another punch. A miss. “God. I’m gonna fucking kill you—” 

He grunts as the heel of Jason’s foot slams into his gut. “Go ahead,” Jason snaps, clambering to his feet. In the corner of his vision, he sees his mom’s purse by the door. His heart leaps. 

It’s in his hands in seconds. _ Find her phone, find her phone, find— _

The air leaves his lungs as his back slams into the wall. Tommy is in front of him now, growling like an animal as his fists wrap around Jason’s collar. The material rasps as it begins to tear. 

And now his head is slamming into the wall. Once. Twice. Stars flash in his vision; his skull rings with pain. 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Tommy snarls. 

Like a cat Jason hisses and spits, trying to escape even as his vision falters. Somewhere in the chaos his hands find Tommy’s chest and push against it. World spinning. Body failing. 

Another blow to the head. He cries out, but then something heavy slams into his gut and the cry becomes a choke. The world goes white. 

“You want to be a man so bad?” This time, Tommy’s fist finds his jaw. Once. Twice. His mouth fills with hot, coppery blood. “Learn to fucking fight.” 

With a growl Jason throws his elbow into the side of Tommy’s head. The man’s grip loosens. _ Almost— _ one last, desperate kick— _ free. _

Through his blurred, darkened vision, Jason can hardly see the contents of his mom’s purse scattered over the floor. Without thinking he falls to his knees and fumbles around, not caring that he can hear Tommy recovering behind him. Blood drips from his nose, his mouth. 

_ Heart pounding. Head spinning. Body hurting. _

Finally, his fingers graze the cool surface of a phone. Scrambling to his feet. Running. _ Got to get out, got to get out… _

The phone is knocked from his grasp and clatters to the floor. Jason hardly has time to react before he is being shoved backward. Falling. Hitting the floor. His arms burn as they twist beneath him. 

Before he can sit up, a pressure descends on his back. 

“Get off of me,” he hisses, voice garbled by blood. 

Tommy’s mouth is inches from his ear, hot and acidic. “I’ve tried, you know,” he says, wrapping a hand around the front of Jason’s throat. “I’ve tried so hard to teach you your place. But you never fucking learn.”

When Jason turns to spit red onto his face, the hand on his throat squeezes harder. Each breath becomes a wheeze. 

“Maybe I’ve just got to try something new.”

Through the pain, Jason feels a hand on the top of his jeans. Tugging. For a moment, everything runs cold. Time: frozen. His body: frozen. His mind: frozen. 

And then he breaks free. 

Jason writhes and kicks, snarling as he struggles against Tommy’s body. Useless. _ Weak. _

The hand shoves him down. “Oh come on,” Tommy says, choking him until stars flash across his vision. “I thought you liked this kind of thing.” 

Punching. Hissing. Choking. Kicking. 

“Fine.” 

For just a moment, the pressure is gone and Jason gulps down air. But before he can recover his arms are yanked back. There’s a sharp _ crack _and his wrist is on fire. He screams. 

“Oh, shut up.” Something rustles. A belt being undone. 

“Tommy, _ please,” _ Jason chokes out. One eye catches the phone across the floor. The other can’t see anything. _ “Please stop!” _

“Fuck. Maybe this will fix you.” 

_ “Please!” _

Hand on his jeans. Struggling. Arm screaming. Choking. A knock on the door. 

_ A knock on the door. _

The world falls still. 

He can see a shadow beneath the door, shifting from side to side as the seconds pass. _ Dick, _he thinks, as the pressure on his back shifts toward his lower body. More air leaks into his lungs. 

“Don’t you dare,” Tommy hisses. 

Jason breathes in as much as he can. And _ screams. _

“HELP!” he cries. “HELP! _ SOMEBODY HELP—” _

There are two hands around his throat now, cutting off every last bit of air. Jason bucks just enough to loosen them. 

“HELP!” 

Fingernails dig into the grooves of his neck. “You fucking idiot. I told you not to—” 

A loud crash shakes them both. The door flies open, slamming against the adjacent wall. And it’s not Dick on the other side. 

It’s Lucas. 

There is a short pause. A folder falls from Lucas’ hands, spilling papers over the floor. A rush of black. Jason can breathe again. 

Somewhere in the distance, he is aware of the sound of fists hitting flesh, of Lucas snarling—_Don’t you fucking touch him. Never again. Never again!—_and Tommy grunting in pain. The crunch of something breaking. Something else falling over. 

In front of him, the phone catches the light from the hallway. 

By the time it’s against his ear, Jason can hardly move. His eyes are fixed on the two men on the other side of the room, at the limp woman just beyond. Lucas’ knuckles are bloodied. Tommy is folded in half on the floor, twitching as Lucas drives his boot into his ribs. His mom still isn’t moving. 

On the other end of the line, a voice: 

_ 9-1-1, what’s your emergency? _

It’s the last thing Jason remembers before he shuts down. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (**Warnings for this chapter:** abuse, homophobic language, references to underage drinking, drug overdoses, violence, attempted rape.)
> 
> The alternate title for this chapter was "Jason Todd and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day". 
> 
> So... have another [cat video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qIMvntC6pBc)?


	24. A Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god... is this... is this the last main chapter?? in something I've written? unreal. 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** references to the shitstorm that was the last chapter, just a lot of emotion

Jason waits in an uncomfortable chair, cradling his wrist against his chest. The cast itches. When he tries to scratch, the itch spreads across the entirety of the hidden skin, from the base of his thumb to halfway down his forearm. He keeps scratching. The itch gets worse. At least it’s better than the pain. 

Across the waiting room, two people are talking to the woman at the desk. Lucas and Dick. For a brief moment Jason thinks,  _ how did they get here?  _ And then he remembers begging Lucas to call him, then begging a nurse not to let Dick see him, then falling apart and asking for them back, then changing his mind once again… 

He doesn’t need to hear what they are saying, doesn’t  _ want  _ to hear what they are saying. It’s best not to think at all. Just sit in the chair and pretend that people aren’t staring at his split lip, his swollen eye, the bruises around his nose, face, jaw, neck. He’s had lots of practice pretending.

The clock on the wall shows him that it’s nearly midnight. Maybe that’s why he’s so tired. It’s almost tomorrow. Is he dreaming already? He’s heard once that you can’t read in a dream. So he squints at the walls, trying to make out words on multi-colored posters.  _ Flourish. Ask questions. Your department journey.  _

Jason blinks, and the words are still there. Something hard lodges itself in his throat.

“How are you feeling, kid?

He looks up. Lucas is staring down at him, his expression softer than any one Jason has seen before. The knuckles of his right hand are cracked and raw. 

Jason looks away. “Okay.”

“You left these in the pharmacy,” Lucas says, placing a paper bag next to Jason’s good arm. “Aspirin doesn’t do you any good if you don’t take it.”

“I don’t want any drugs.”

Lucas nods, but doesn’t take the bag away. “Grayson is gonna take you back to his place,” he says. “Tomorrow I’ll help you get your things.”

Jason glances up at him. The fluorescent lights burn. “My things?” 

“I talked to Andrew. You’re staying with us until you find a new place to live.”

“I don’t know—”

“You’re not going back,” Lucas says. Definitive. No room for questions. “You understand why I’m not going to let you go back, right?” 

A small part of Jason wants to protest, wants to find some sort of excuse and stick with it.  _ What’s done is done. I’m fine. Let’s just forget this happened and move on.  _ But the lies fall apart on his tongue, and the longer he stays silent the more he wants to throw up. Again.

“Yeah,” he mutters. 

Lucas sighs as he crouches down. “Jason, look at me.”

It’s much harder than it should be. Because all Jason sees is Lucas’ face in the doorway of his apartment, and he feels Tommy’s weight on his back, the floor pressing against his chest, the shame burning away at his core. 

“Hey,” Lucas says softly, but firmly. “None of this was your fault. And it won’t happen again. I won’t let it. Do you understand me?”

Jason nods. 

“Good.” Standing, he lets out a long sigh. “See you tomorrow, kid. I’m a phone call away if you need anything.”

“Okay,” he replies, but the words are so small he knows Lucas can’t hear him. His throat aches like he’s been drinking down smoke. When he touches his adam’s apple, he half-expects his fingerprints to burn away. 

Beside the brown paper bag are a few wrinkled papers.  _ Diagnoses: ulnar fracture in left arm, hypoactive delirium, neck abrasions, facial abrasions, respiratory distress, bruises to face, arms, torso.  _ Boiling everything down to words on a page. He’s just another statistic. 

_ Nearly 80% of domestic violence crimes are related to the use of drugs…  _

Dick appears beside him, looking like he doesn’t know whether to cry or punch a wall. He’s lost it once already, bursting into the hospital room like an explosion, peppering his anger with frantic, desperate apologies.  _ I’m so sorry, Jay. I’m gonna fucking—are you alright? I’m so sorry.  _

As he stands over Jason, his eyes wander over his face and down to the dark, finger-shaped bruises that stretch around the front of his neck.  _ How much do you know?  _ Jason wants to ask.  _ How much did Lucas tell you?  _

Not for the first time, he wonders if there’s anything left of him to pour out. 

“Are you ready to go?” Dick asks quietly. 

Scratching his cast, Jason looks down the hall toward the shiny elevator doors. They’re so far away. Everything is so far away. 

“Jason?”

“I wanna see her,” he says. 

The wrong thing to say. Dick’s eyes flicker down the hallway, then to the floor. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jay.”

“I can’t just leave. I don’t want to stay, but I can’t just leave.”

“You can.”

Jason shakes his head. Pain shoots across his skull, down his spine. “I can’t,” he whispers. “She has to…I need to let her know what’s going on. How things are gonna be.” 

“Jason.”

“Then I’ll write it,” he says, picking up his discharge papers and looking around for a pen. “Please. She needs—I need to do this.  _ Please,  _ Dick.” 

A moment. Dick offers a gentle smile, a sad smile, before walking over to the front desk. He comes back with a pen and clipboard. “I’ll be sitting over there,” he says quietly, nodding toward the other side of the waiting room. 

Jason takes the items from him. “It won’t take long,” he replies. 

They both know he’s lying. 

As he writes his fingers tremble, unable to find a solid grip on the pen. Each word is a new pain. But still he pushes forward, writing and crossing out until he knows there’s nothing else to leave on the page. 

_ Dear  _ <strike>_Mom_ _Catherine_</strike> _ Mom, _

<strike> _ I’m sorry _ </strike> _ I’m not sorry for leaving, but I am sorry that I’m leaving now.  _ <strike> _ Addiction is _ </strike> _ For as long as I can remember I have wanted you to get better. And for just as long I thought it was my job to get you there. But this isn’t my job, and never has been.  _ <strike> _ After you let Tommy _ </strike>

_ I’m writing this on my discharge papers. If you want to see what Tommy did, you can read them. I don’t know if they wrote down everything.  _

_ You didn’t put me here, but what happened to me isn’t something you are blameless for, and I hope you can understand why.  _ <strike> _ I still think _ </strike> _ I want to believe that there’s a good person inside of you. Despite everything, I don’t want to believe you meant to let things get as far as they did, but  _ <strike> _ the more I think about it _ </strike> _ after everything that’s happened  _ _ I can’t _ _ I’m beginning to see clearly. For a long time you’ve been choosing  _ <strike>_drugs_ _Tommy_</strike> _ your own interests over me, and I kept getting hurt. I don’t want to be hurt anymore.  _

_ Please know I’m not leaving because I want to punish you. I’m leaving for me, and I’m not going to be coming back. And maybe there’s a part of me still hoping that this letter will be a wake-up call.  _ <strike> _ I know _ </strike> _ I want to believe that you can get better. Please get better. I’ll be waiting for you. _

<strike> _ Love, _ </strike> _ _

<strike> _ Goodbye, _ </strike>

_ Love, _

_ Jason.  _

“Okay,” he mutters, after handing the folded paper to the woman at the front desk. “I’m ready to go.” 

Dick doesn’t say anything. He picks up the brown paper bag, almost smiles, then stills. Waiting. For a moment Jason is rooted in place, unable to pick up his feet, unable to think of the letter he’s leaving behind.  _ Mistake, mistake, mistake…  _

Taking one last look at the elevator doors, Jason hugs his broken wrist against his chest and walks quickly toward the exit. 

The car ride is quiet. Jason presses his face against the passenger window, watching the city lights pass him by. The glass cools the tender skin around his eye. Maybe the swelling will go down soon. It’s getting hard for him to keep his eyes open. 

As they walk into the apartment, Dick says, “I’ll find you some clothes to change into.” 

Jason looks down. There’s blood and grime on the collar of his shirt, and his clothes reek of sweat and hospital rooms. “Okay,” he says softly. 

“Do you want to wash up? I can get you—”

“I can do it.”

Dick nods. “Okay. I’ll leave the clothes on my bed.”

“I want to sleep on the couch,” Jason says quickly. His throat aches at the sudden flight of words. “I mean, if that’s okay. I don’t want—I think I’d be more comfortable there.” 

“Of course that’s okay,” Dick replies, smiling gently. “If you’ll be more comfortable.” 

He won’t. Or maybe he will. Jason just doesn’t know, anymore. All he knows is that he hates the way Dick is looking at him, the way it makes guilt pool in his stomach.  _ Not your job to get me better…  _

The warm water stings, but only for a second. Jason doesn’t look in the mirror as he washes up. He already knows what would be looking back at him. And when he goes to take off his jeans, his fingers linger on the hem. For a second he remains shock-still. Trying to orient himself. In Dick’s apartment. Alone. Safe. 

He closes his eyes and changes as quickly as he can. 

“Did that help?” Dick asks, when Jason comes out of the bathroom and takes the empty spot next to him, drawing his knees into his chest. There’s a pile of blankets draped over the side of the sofa, a pillow on the carpet by his feet. Jason wishes there were more of them, enough to wrap him up ten times over, so that no one could possibly touch him. 

“How much do you know?” he asks quietly. 

The sofa groans as Dick shifts his weight, staring at the coffee table. “Lucas told me it was pretty bad.”

“Please tell me,” Jason whispers.  _ Please tell me I’m not alone.  _

A pause. “He said that it wasn’t his place to tell me everything,” Dick says at last. “And if you didn’t, then I would have to ask you, because it’s not something you should deal with by yourself.” 

Jason takes a deep breath, hugging his knees until his wrist begins to scream. “Tommy tried to…”  _ Can’t say it. Can’t say it. It didn’t happen and you still can’t say it.  _ Something like shame wells inside him; he swallows and tries again. So quiet that his heartbeat is louder than his voice. “He tried to… He said he was going to fix me.”

Dick exhales sharply, eyes flashing with pain and fury. “Shit, Jason,” he breathes. “That’s—”

“He didn’t.”

“And? That doesn’t change anything. I mean,  _ god. _ If Lucas hadn’t fucked him up already…” Dick shakes his head. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, fingers digging into the fabric of the sofa. “I hope he rots in prison.” 

Jason nods, resting his forehead on his knees. Dick’s shirt smells like fabric softener. He breathes in deeply, letting the scent fill him until he doesn’t feel as empty. 

After a moment, a gentle hand settles on his bicep, squeezing. It’s not long before he’s leaning into the touch, wanting to be swallowed by the warmth. Letting it all fade away… 

“You know you don’t need fixing, right?” Dick asks. 

_ I’m so fucked up,  _ Jason thinks, but he knows that’s not what Dick meant. So he nods again, lifting his head to look Dick in the eyes. 

“I know,” he mutters. 

Silence falls over them. Jason thinks about Tommy, then his mom, then wishes he hadn’t. He’s not supposed to be thinking about them. He’s not supposed to be thinking at all. 

“It’s getting late,” he says. 

In a second Dick is on his feet, nodding. “Right,” he replies, softly. “Blankets are there. You might want to take off the back cushions so you have more room.”

“Okay.”

“Did you, um…did you take your meds?” 

Jason flinches. “I’m fine, Dick,” he lies. “It doesn’t hurt.” 

“Okay,” Dick echoes, clearly seeing through the lie. 

For some reason Jason feels a part of himself crack open. His vision blurs; his face grows hot. “Fuck,” he chokes out, laughing because he doesn’t know what else to do. “I guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

Dick’s jaw is tight. “I’ll let you sleep, then.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jason replies, trying his best to smile. It doesn’t work.

A moment passes before Dick moves. Carefully, as if waiting for Jason to tell him  _ no,  _ he bends to meet him, and places a gentle kiss on his forehead. “I’m here if you need anything,” he whispers, and then he’s gone. 

Jason can hear him walking but does not look. He waits until he hears the click of the bathroom door before standing— _ fuck,  _ his whole body aches—and throwing together a makeshift bed. Pillows, blankets, none of it matters. He just wants to sleep.  _ Needs _ to sleep. 

He turns off the light, and the room is washed in darkness. Too dark. Jason presses himself against the back of the couch, trying to keep pressure off his broken wrist even as he holds the blankets tighter against his body. 

The bathroom door opens. Footsteps. A small light turns on. The small light turns off. Dark again. 

Jason closes his eyes and tries to slow his heartbeat.  _ Breathe in, breath out. Breathe in, breathe out. _

He wonders if his mom is still in the hospital. He wonders if the cops will ask him to speak at Tommy’s trial, if Tommy will get a trial. 

_ Breathe in, breath out. Breathe in, breathe— _

Something creaks. Jason stiffens and squeezes his eyes shut. When nothing happens, he listens for the sound again and realizes it’s coming from the fridge. The  _ fridge.  _

_ Breathe in, breath out. Breathe in, breath out. _

He waits for sleep. And waits. And waits. And then he can’t wait anymore.

When he stands, he clings to the blankets like they’re the only thing holding him together. The carpet is cool beneath his bare feet, cushioning his steps. 

“Dick?” he whispers, pushing open the bedroom door. 

A shadow sits up. The room is flooded with soft yellow light as Dick turns on the lamp beside him. “Is something wrong?” 

“I…” God. How can he say it without sounding like a child? “...I don’t want to be alone.” 

“Oh. Do you want—”

“Yeah,” Jason says, already walking toward the bed. He slides in quickly, still holding onto the blankets from before, not caring that he’s quickly growing too warm to be comfortable. 

Not that anything could be comfortable, given the state of his body.

Dick waits a moment before turning off the light and lying back down. It’s not a large bed by any means, but somehow the space between them stretches for miles. Somehow it feels like too much and not enough. 

“Are you okay?” Dick asks. Then: “Sorry. That’s a dumb question, isn’t it.” 

Jason tries to find a position that doesn’t hurt his wrist. There are none. Hugging the pillow against his head, he mutters, “Just a little jumpy, I guess.”

“Want me to turn on a fan? Sometimes white noise helps.”

“Um, sure. Thank you.”

A small shuffle, and then a low, familiar hum fills the room. Jason takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes. After a moment, he asks, “Are you okay?”

He can’t see Dick’s face, but he can picture his expression: brow furrowed, eyes soft, lips pulled into a confused smile. With a sigh, Dick says, “Why are you asking me?” 

_ Not your job to get me better…  _

“I’m more than you signed up for.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Well, it’s true.” 

Dick swears beneath his breath, shifting closer until the heat of his body is nearly pressed against Jason’s. “You’re tired,” he says, “and you have every right to be. Do you think you can sleep?”

Jason nods even though he knows Dick can’t see him. But the message gets across anyway. 

“Goodnight, Jason,” Dick says softly. His fingers brush over Jason’s forearm: an unspoken promise.  _ I’m going to be here when you wake up. _

Too tired to reply, Jason pretends to sleep. Eyes closed; body as loose as he can possibly make it. That’s how it is supposed to work, anyway. He pretends to sleep and sleep comes faster. And when he wakes, Dick will be there, and maybe everything won’t hurt as much. 

***

Jason stands in his bedroom—what was his bedroom—and stares at the shoe box in his hands. All his clothes are gone, stuffed into a suitcase that Lucas has already taken down to his car. What remains is a small envelope. It’s yellowed and worn with age, and even though he knows exactly what’s inside Jason can’t stop looking at it. 

“Do you want to take these?” Dick asks, holding up a stack of old CDs. Hard rock albums that Jason’s never even listened to. 

“No.” 

“What about the posters?”

“You can leave them.” 

“Okay,” Dick says. He picks up the last of Jason’s books from the floor and places them gently in the second suitcase. “What’s that?” 

Jason chews the inside of his cheek. “Just some stuff. From when I was a kid.”

Old report cards. A drawing of super heroes. A stuffed cat with matted fur. Photos of himself as a baby, where his dad is smiling and his mom is smiling and nothing has gone wrong yet. 

Dick seems to know. Without asking, he takes the box from Jason’s hands and puts it in the suitcase. “I think that’s everything,” he says quietly. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about something?”

Jason looks around his room—his old room—taking note of the empty drawers and closet, the lack of books, the absence where  _ he  _ used to be. Everything is numb. Like he’s watching a scene from a movie he doesn’t care about. All he wants is to fast-forward and get to the end credits. 

“No,” he says, grabbing his backpack from the floor. “I’m fine. Let’s go.” 

After the front door closes behind them, he only looks back for a moment. Then his stomach twists into a knot, and Jason hurries down the stairs.

Lucas is waiting for him by the car. “That’s it?” he asks, looking at the lone suitcase Dick is dragging behind him.

“That’s it,” Jason replies. 

“And you left your keys on the table, like I told you?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Lucas nods. “You’re ready then?” 

Jason watches Dick load the suitcase into the back of the car, scratching his cast again. His arm hurts more than it did last night, a deep ache that has spread toward his shoulder. Maybe this is a good thing. The pain gives him a reason not to look back at the building, at the kitchen window he’d recognize in a heartbeat… 

“Yeah, “ he says again. 

“It’ll get easier. You’re making the right decision.”

“I know,” Jason replies, not knowing. 

The drive to Lucas’ apartment doesn’t take long, but it feels like forever. He wants to hold Dick’s hand, but he also doesn’t, so he settles on holding the door, trying not to stare at his reflection in the passenger-side window. 

And then he’s in an elevator.

And then he’s walking down a hallway. 

And then he’s standing in front of Lucas’ front door.

While Lucas goes for his keys, Dick slips his hand into Jason’s good one and squeezes. “How are you feeling?” he asks quietly. 

“Like shit.”

“Did you take any aspirin?”

“It’s not—” Jason bites his tongue. Guilt claws its way up his throat, catching in his windpipe. No more words. 

The door doesn’t whine as Lucas pushes it open. “Andrew cleared out our spare room,” he says, hauling the two suitcases inside. “Should be lots of space for your things.” 

“Okay,” Jason replies, slipping his hand from Dick’s. 

Dick doesn’t make a comment. 

“Bathroom’s there,” Lucas says, pointing. “Kitchen, living room…pretty self-explanatory. Laundry’s on the first floor. We’ve got Netflix and shit hooked up if you ever want to watch anything.”

Jason nods, looking around the apartment. Large windows, good views of the city. The floors are  _ hardwood.  _ They have a kitchen  _ island,  _ with  _ barstools.  _ “This is… I don’t really know how to thank you,” he says softly. 

Lucas sets the bags down in a room with cool gray walls and a single, soft-looking bed. It’s about the size of Jason’s room—his old room—though the closet and bookshelves give it a different, cleaner feel. 

“Worry about that later,” he says. “You two eat lunch already?”

“Before we left,” Dick replies. Almost true. He ate; Jason tried to. Better than nothing, probably. 

Lucas nods, leaning against the door frame. “Go ahead and unpack. Extra hangers are in the front closet. I’ve got to go check up on a worksite, but if you need anything, you’ve got my number. And Don’t let him lift anything heavy when you unpack, ‘kay, Grayson?”

“You got it,” Dick says, grinning at Jason. 

Jason can’t bring himself to smile back.

They’re halfway through his clothes when a sudden exhaustion steals the strength from his limbs. Jason staggers, catching his weight on the bed. The white bedspread wrinkles beneath his touch. 

It takes Dick less than a second to notice. “Are you okay?” he asks, dropping the books he’d only just picked up. 

“I don’t know. Probably not.”

“You want to talk about it?” Dick rests his hand on the curve of Jason’s back, rubs small circles into the tense muscle. “Tell me what I can do.”

Jason takes a shaky breath. “I don’t want you to do anything,” he mutters, shrugging Dick off as he sits down on the bed. “It’s not your job to help me get better.” 

Dick stands still for a moment. Something flickers across his eyes then disappears, leaving only understanding behind. “Is this about your mom?” he asks.

“No. I mean, yes. Kind of.” Jason forces himself to look up at Dick even though he can feel the pressure building behind his eyes. In his chest. He’s breathing, but he isn’t getting any oxygen. “Is it hurting you, taking care of me?”

“Shit, Jay.” Dick sighs deeply, drawing a hand through his hair. “This is different. I promise. You’re not hurting me.” 

Jason pulls out his phone, turning it over in his good hand. No missed calls from his mom, not yet. “I didn’t think she was hurting me, either.”

“Don’t you dare compare—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “You’re not. I swear you’re not.”

“Still doesn’t mean it’s your job to help me. Because it’s not.” 

Dick pauses, jaw tensing. For some time he says nothing. He just  _ stands  _ there, brow furrowed and eyes glistening. “Do you want me to break up with you?” he asks. 

Something inside Jason cracks.  _ No,  _ he wants to scream, but he knows he can’t say that. Because if he does, then Dick never will, even if he wants to. So instead he says, in a whisper, “I need help. I know I need help.” 

“I’m not going to break up with you,” Dick says, shaking his head. “I’m not. What kind of asshole do you think I am?”

“That’s just it. You’re not an asshole. You want to help everyone, all the time. But maybe…” Jason takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to do this alone. I  _ can’t.  _ And I’m  _ going _ to get help. Therapy, group, all that fun shit.”

The bed creaks as Dick sits down next to him. “So you want help,” he mutters, “just not from me?”

“You’re making it sound bad.” 

Dick squeezes his arm. “I want to be a part of your life, Jay.” 

“I want you to be a part of my life, too,” Jason says. Sleep weighs him down; without thinking he leans over and rests his head against Dick’s shoulder. “Just not one hundred percent of it. Not yet.” 

A long moment passes. Dick’s heartbeat is gentle in his ears, his breath comes in even waves. Jason goes limp. He thinks he might be falling. 

“Eighty-five,” Dick says at last. “Deal?” 

“Eighty-five?”

“Percent.” 

“Oh.” Despite everything, Jason feels himself smile into Dick’s collarbone. “Deal.”

“And no more secrets.”

Jason nods. “No more secrets.”

Dick brushes the hair from his forehead to kiss the exposed skin of his temple. Jason presses himself against Dick’s body, wanting to feel his warmth everywhere he can. Just the two of them. Safe. Not okay, but getting there. 

After a moment, Dick runs his fingers over Jason’s cast. “White, huh?” he asks.

“I didn’t want to choose a color.” 

“You look good in red.” 

Jason shrugs. With each passing second, his eyelids grow heavier. The bed is soft. The heartbeat in his ears is slow. He aches to wrap himself around Dick and melt away. 

“I saw some Sharpies in your bag,” Dick says. 

“Mmm?”

“Can I draw on your cast?”

Jason nods. “Sure,” he mutters, leaning up to place a gentle kiss on Dick’s lips. “I might fall asleep, though.” 

Dick smiles as he stands, leaving Jason to fall back over the bed. Like a starfish. Lights on, Dick rooting through the backpack, none of it matters. He could be asleep in seconds. 

“You’re really cute when you sleep,” Dick says, picking up Jason’s arm. 

“Fuck you,” Jason mumbles. 

Dick laughs as he starts to scribble something on the cast. Jason can’t keep his eyes open to see what it is, so he doesn’t. All he can do is lie still and listen. 

When he opens his eyes, the room is darker, and Dick is standing in the doorway. Jason sits up quickly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The bruised skin aches, but not as much as it had that morning. 

“Hey,” he says. 

“Did I wake you?” Dick asks. 

“Only a little.”

“Shit.” He leans against the doorway, grinning. “Don’t tell Lucas. He told me not to.” 

“He’s back?”

Dick nods. “And Andrew. Dinner’s ready, if you’re hungry.”

Jason swings his legs over the side of the bed, stretching his arms over his head. “What?” he asks, when he catches the look on Dick’s face. 

“I’m just so lucky,” Dick says.

Something flutters in Jason’s chest. “Not as lucky as me.”

Dick tries and fails to hide his smile. After a moment, he asks, “Do you like your cast?” 

“What?”

He points, and Jason looks down. Over his arm are ribbons of color—red, blue, yellow, green, purple—winding up and around the cast. Jason traces a finger over them, eyes welling, breath caught in his throat. 

Dick has made him a rainbow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for being on this journey with me. And now there's only an epilogue left...


	25. One Year Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. This is it. I don't really know what to say. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading. I've had so much fun.

Sometimes it doesn’t feel real. 

Sometimes, when he wakes up, Jason waits for the good things to go away. Sometimes he’s afraid to even blink. Because if he blinks, the life he knew is going to come back. He’ll be lying in a shitty apartment, tired and hungry and confused and _ lonely. _Waiting for his next bruise. Waiting for another reason to hate himself. 

But it’s real, all of it. Even if he’s still learning to accept that. 

Jason sits at the kitchen island while he writes in his journal, listening to the sound of Andrew dicing peppers while a society podcast plays in the background. Sun is falling through the wide windows. It gathers over his shoulders and the curve of his spine, a warmth in the cool air of the apartment. _ Well you can’t move out now, _ Lucas said, at the beginning of summer. _ You’ll never be able to afford an apartment with good AC. _

How could he argue with that? 

The pen that Dick gave him glides smoothly over the page. It’s the kind of pen that makes Jason want to work on his penmanship, practice loops and crosses until his journal looks like it was written by an eighteenth-century poet. It’s the kind of pen that he used to consider too good to use on his therapy journals, as if he could taint it with his thoughts. But then he realized that the pen was a good thing, and that his thoughts were a good thing, and that he had been denying himself a pleasure for no good reason. A happiness is a happiness, no matter how small. 

He writes: _ My mom called me today. She left a voicemail. Said she was trying rehab again. I hate how this makes me hopeful because I feel like I am setting myself up for disappointment, but I am trying to be grateful that she hasn’t given up. _

He writes: _ There are twenty-two days before the start of Fall Semester. I’m excited for my classes, but I can’t stop worrying about tuition. Dick says that Bruce will happily pay for my books and fees, and even though I know it’s out of kindness not charity, and that I should accept help when it’s given, I am having a hard time accepting the offer. I will think about it. _

He writes: _ I’ve been thinking more about it, and I am going to major in English Literature and minor in Education. Here are the reasons why I think this is a good idea. _

He writes: _ Today I am happy because: Dick is coming over soon. I had a good run this morning. The bookstore had a lot of good books on their clearance racks. I found a new song that I really like. Lucas found the bookmark I thought I’d lost. Andrew and Lucas make me laugh. Dick sent me a video of Damian and Alfred the Cat. Tim sent me a video of Dick taking the video. Dick Grayson is my boyfriend. I love my boyfriend. _

“Damn kid. You ever get hand cramps?” Lucas asks. 

Jason shrugs. He flexes his hand, rolling his wrist. “Sometimes,” he replies, turning around to look at him. “No pain no gain, amiright?”

Lucas rolls his eyes as he grabs a slice of pepper and pops it into his mouth. “No pain, no carpal tunnel,” he says, reaching for another. 

Andrew smacks his hand away. “Cut your own peppers.” 

“Damn. Maybe I will.”

“You’re sure you don’t want any help?” Jason asks, glancing at the counter in front of him.

Andrew laughs as he rinses a ripe tomato. His gold engagement ring glints in the sunlight. “Like I can trust you with knives anymore,” he says, nodding at a bandage on Jason’s thumb. 

“Watermelons are hard to cut. Sue me.” 

“They’re hard to cut when you cut them like _ that.” _

Jason scoffs, trying to hide his smile. “Please,” he replies. _ “I’m _ not the one that plays five finger fillet.”

Lucas feigns indignation. “Hey. I know what I’m doing.”

“Thin ice, babe. Thin freaking-ice.” Andrew starts slicing into the tomato. Looking up at Jason, he says, “You can help by—”

“—cleaning up,” Jason finishes, closing his journal. “Got it. I’ll wash dishes instead of hanging out with my boyfriend.”

Grinning, Andrew pops a slice of tomato in his mouth. “Recruit him to help. Dishwashing is a very romantic activity.” 

“He’s right.” Lucas nods. “Nothing says ‘romance’ like sharing a sponge.” 

“Thanks for the tip,” Jason says dryly, sliding off the seat. He tucks his journal under his arm as he walks away. “I’ll be sure to keep that one in mind.”

His journal goes where it always does, in the nightstand by the bed. His bed. In his room. 

It doesn’t feel the same as it did fifteen months ago. The space is less sterile, more familiar. His books are on the shelves. His photographs are on the walls. A few months back he bought a new bedspread, new sheets, a couple of succulents. There’s a Gotham University pennant. Two flags from Gotham Pride. They stick out from his pen holder, next to a framed photo of him and Dick. 

For some reason, Jason finds himself drawn to the photograph. He picks it up slowly, feeling the weight of it in his hands, running his fingers over the smooth edge of the frame. His own face stares back at him. 

It’s a dumb picture, really. They’re at the Community Center, arms around each other while Dick presses a kiss against his cheek. Dick’s arms are full of boardgames, a lopsided stack of color that threatens to tip over at any moment. There is a multi-colored cast on Jason’s wrist. He’s smiling. 

It’s not a dumb picture, Jason reminds himself. Not a dumb picture at all. 

The sound of a knock brings him back. _ Dick. _In a second Jason is at the front door, already wearing a stupid smile. 

“Hey handsome,” Dick says, planting a soft kiss on Jason’s cheek. “How was your day?”

Jason pretends he isn’t blushing from the kiss. _ Today I am happy because my boyfriend kissed me. _“Pretty good,” he replies, pulling Dick into the apartment. “Bought a few books, but I also got the butt end of the bread this morning, so, you know. Ups and downs. What about you?”

“Took Dami to the Tech Museum.”

“Ooh. How’d that go?”

Dick laughs, a sound that sends a warmth down Jason’s spine. “He complained about it being, quote, ‘for kids’ before watching a Rube Goldberg machine for thirty minutes.”

“Aww. I’ll rub it in his face next time I see him.” 

“Mmm hmm,” Dick replies, eyes fixed on Jason’s chest while he runs a hand down the front of his button-up. “Nice shirt.” 

“Thanks. Andrew told me to buy it.”

“Sure did,” Andrew cuts in, smiling at Dick. “Can’t have him taking after Lucas. Asshole fashion just isn’t his look.”

Lucas scoffs. “I prefer the term ‘douchebag chic.’” 

“And it suits you, babe.”

“I keep telling him that he looks good in red,” Dick says, adjusting Jason’s collar. His fingers brush lightly over the skin of his neck, tickling. “Glad to know one of us gets through to him.”

Jason grabs his hand, squeezing gently. “You always get through to me, Dickiebird.”

“Sad, but true,” Lucas says. He flashes a knowing grin at Jason. “Not that he’d admit it, but he switched shampoos after you mentioned you like the scent of lavender.” 

“Young love,” Andrew muses. 

Jason feels his face redden. “I’m gonna show him the roof,” he says quickly, cutting off Dick’s inevitable reply. He starts to drag him toward the door. “The new terrace looks really good. Be back soon.”

Andrew waves. “Have fun.”

“But not _ too _ much fun,” Lucas adds, still grinning. 

Jason flips them off, trying not to laugh. As they leave, he thinks, _ today I am happy because of them. _

“There really is a new terrace,” he says to Dick, pushing open the door to the roof. They’re met by an orange sky and the glittering windows of skyscrapers. The wind is clean and slow and carries the gentle warmth from the fading sun. “They put it in a few days ago.”

Dick laughs. “I can see that,” he says, looking up at the wooden structure above their heads. Fairy lights twinkle between the beams, nearly invisible against the brightly-colored sky. 

“Plants should grow in soon,” Jason adds, motioning at the planter boxes. “Should be really pretty in a few months.”

“It’s pretty now.”

He’s right. The solar lights along the edge of the roof have already come on, giving the wall a pleasant glow that matches the sunset. Vibrant leaves and flowers stand in sharp contrast to the gray of the city. Everything is clean and nothing smells like alcohol and cigarettes. 

Jason blinks, and it’s still there. Real.

“It _ is _pretty,” he says, correcting himself. “But I’m also looking forward to how pretty it will look when everything’s grown in. Like something out of—”

He’s cut off by the sudden pressure of Dick’s lips on his own. It’s a quick kiss, almost chaste, but it reverberates through his body clear and pleasant as a bell. 

After, he can’t help but laugh. “What was that for?”

“I’m so proud of you,” Dick says, brushing a lock of hair from Jason’s face. “You’re doing a great job.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know. So was I.” Jason walks over to one of the benches and sits, letting the wind wash over his face. When he feels Dick sit beside him, he holds up three fingers. “Three weeks,” he says. 

“Of?” Dick asks.

“No episodes. Not even a nightmare.” 

“Jason, that’s great.” 

“Well,” he continues, returning Dick’s smile. “Technically I had a nightmare about missing finals. But that’s different, you know. Normal.” Laughing softly, he adds, “And I got a little anxious after my mo—Catherine called today, but I suppose that’s normal too.”

Dick nods, staring across the scattered buildings in front of them. Jason can tell from the look on his face that he wants to ask, but won’t. 

A fresh wave of love for him bursts inside Jason. 

“This is new,” Dick says suddenly, holding up Jason’s hand to look at the ring on his middle finger.

“Oh. Yeah.” He laughs, grateful for the change of subject. “It’s an ace ring. Harper gave it to me the other day.” 

“I like it.” Dick holds Jason’s hand, staring at the ring without really looking at it. After a long moment of comfortable silence, he presses his lips against the back of his palm. His eyes are soft. “Is there a ring that means, ‘I love my ace boyfriend’?” he asks. 

Jason rolls his eyes. “No, but I could find you a tee shirt if you want.”

“Maybe,” Dick mumbles, releasing Jason’s hand. 

Another moment of silence follows. Jason dwells comfortably in it, gravitating toward Dick’s body without meaning to. _ Today I am happy because of this moment right here. _“I love you too, by the way,” he says, resting his head on Dick’s shoulder. Lazily he reaches behind them and starts to draw his fingers through Dick’s hair. “Just in case you couldn’t tell.”

“I had my doubts,” Dick replies, leaning into his touch.

“Mmm hmm.” Pressing a kiss to Dick’s cheek, Jason says, “Tell me about your life right now, Dickiebird.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything.”

Dick seems to think for a moment. “I’ve been thinking of going for an internship at Gotham General. It’ll kill my free time, but if I decide to apply for an MSN then it’ll look good on the app.” 

“That’s so cool,” Jason says. “You’re so smart.”

“You say that now,” Dick laughs. “To be honest I don’t know if I will. Technically you don’t need an MSN to be a pediatric nurse.”

Jason sits up and shrugs. “My therapist would tell you to make a list. Pros, cons, all that shit,” he says. 

“Is that something you do?” 

“Every day.”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “What kind of lists?” he asks. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

In the distance, a flock of birds moves across the sky. Grey and billowing like a dancing cloud. Jason watches it, thinking. _ What do I want? _

To be happy. To let Dick in. To get better at being open. 

“I’ve been working on finding happiness, and accepting it,” he says softly. “And a lot of that is just recognizing things or rewording them to make them positive. So when shit happens, I start making lists. You know. Things that frustrate me. Things that calm me. Things I want to do right this second.”

Dick takes a hold of his hand again. His skin is warm and smooth. “Does that help?” he asks.

“Sometimes. Sometimes I just end up listening to music.” Jason looks at him and smiles. “Or talking to you.”

There’s a short pause before Dick says, “You really are doing a great job, Jay.” 

Jason can’t contain his laugh. It feels good, talking about these things. Freeing. “You wanna know something funny?” he asks. 

“Hit me.”

“I’ve never realized that it’s normal not to be happy all the time. Like, when I’m sad, I can be sad. I can be angry. I can be—I don’t know—fucking bored out of my mind. And I don’t have to pretend that I’m not.”

Dick nods. “You can’t fix the problems you hide,” he says. A sly grin spreads over his face. “Plus, your friends can’t support you if they don’t know what’s going on.”

“Ouch. Call me out, will you.”

“Don’t have to. You’re not hiding anything.” His eyes narrow as he peers into Jason’s face. A mock accusation. “Right?”

“Well…” Jason gives a non-committal shrug. “There is _ one _ thing. It’s not set in stone, but I’m pretty sure I’m gonna get a cat.”

“Wait, really? That’s awesome.” 

“Yeah,” Jason says, letting go of Dick’s hand to pull out his phone. Opening up a web page, he gives it to Dick. “Her name is Pip. Lucas keeps saying he doesn’t want a cat, but we all know he’s lying. Besides, I’ll be moving out. Eventually.”

“Eventually,” Dick echoes, zooming in to look at the kitten’s orange face. “She’s really cute. Dami’s gonna lose it.” 

“Oh no, he’ll be forced to tolerate my presence to see an animal. What a shame.”

Dick hands his phone back. “A terrible shame,” he says. “Did you make a list, when you were thinking about getting a pet?”

Jason nods. “There weren’t a lot of cons on that list.”

“I’d imagine,” Dick replies.

A comfortable silence follows. They sit back and watch the sun fall ever-lower and the sky fade from orange to pink. The only sounds come from the wind and the cars passing down the street far below. It’s not cold, but if it were, Jason would not feel it. He’s never cold when Dick is with him.

_ Today I am happy because the world is full of color. _

“It’s a nice evening,” he says, breaking the silence.

“It is,” Dick agrees. 

Jason looks at him. Dick looks back. They’re so close that air can hardly flow between them. A soft affection blooms inside his chest. 

“You know what I want to do right this second?” he asks, inching even closer. Breathing him in. 

Dick wraps his arms around Jason. “I think I can guess” he mumbles, and bridges the distance between their lips. 

He smells like honey. Feels like home. _ I’m kissing Richard Grayson, _ Jason thinks, and the thought is a burst of thunder in his chest. _ I’m still kissing Richard Grayson. _

It’s a lifetime before Jason pulls away. Not quite willing to part, he rests his forehead against Dick’s, waiting for his heart to quell before he can work up the breath to speak. “We should go back down,” he mutters. 

Dick hums, dragging his fingers down the curve of Jason’s spine. “Should we?”

“Andrew’s making lasagna.”

“I can’t make out with you if you’re eating lasagna.”

Grinning, Jason peels himself away while Dick protests. “If I tell Lucas you held me here against my will, you’ll never make out with anyone again.”

“Rude,” Dick says.

“Come on.” Jason pushes himself to his feet and extends a hand. “They’re waiting for us. We can watch the sunset from the dining table.” 

Dick beams up at him. “Sounds good,” he says, taking Jason’s hand. “What about after dinner?”

“After dinner I’m on dish duty.” 

“Gross.”

“Funny. Lucas and Andrew say it’s romantic.”

Dick laughs. “That’s dumb.”

“If you help me, I’ll make out with you while we watch a bad movie,” Jason says. 

“Damn. I guess that is pretty romantic.”

Jason squeezes his hand tighter. “You know it, Dickiebird,” he replies, leading them back to the apartment. The steps come easy to him, as if he’s known this place his whole life. 

Dick’s hand is warm in his own. An anchor. As they walk, Jason pictures Lucas and Andrew waiting for them, the things they will say. They’ll joke and laugh and live, and when he blinks everything will still be there. He’ll be home. 

And as Jason opens the door to his apartment, he thinks, _ today I am happy because I am loved. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra thanks to my friends who have supported my nonsense, and to all the people who have left me lovely comments along the way. You have no idea how much they mean to me. I'm hoarding them like I'm a dragon and your words are precious pieces of gold---because they are, they really are!
> 
> I have plans to do a follow-up one-shot (yes, an actual one-shot, not like how this was a "one-shot") eventually, but there may be more. Who knows. I've really grown attached to these versions of the characters, so it's hard for me to let go. This isn't really a goodbye. 
> 
> I'll see you later ♥


End file.
